Redemption (Renewed)
by xxmadworldredemptionxx
Summary: 6th Century AU: Jace Herondale. A gladiator with a broken past and a burning desire for justice. Clarissa Morgenstern. A princess who yearns to be free from the oppressing shackles of royalty. Entangled in a web of secrets, lies, and a vile plot conceived by two power-hungry tyrants, will love be their salvation or lead them to their destruction? [2014 REBOOT] COMPLETE New CoverArt
1. Prologue: The Devil's Work

_**Author's Note:**_

 _Hello lovelies! Yes this is me,_ _ **xxmadworldreveriexx** , making an official return to the TMI writing community (and hopefully here to stay this time)._

 _Long story short, I've done a lot of soul-searching during my time off the radar, which has led me to decide to abandon my old account and start anew with this one because honestly...I just want a fresh clean slate for myself. This new account is a representation of the more mature version of me because I think I owe it to myself to acknowledge that while I have made some mistakes or decisions that I've regretted in the past, I_ have _grown up and I am ready to move on and move forward with my life._ _Plus,_ _after a FF user tried to plagiarize this particular story of mine, I realized how all the_ _more important it is for me to stick around so I can be proactive against the plagiarism risks. It's time I reclaimed ownership of the stories I have written and allowed the readers who have enjoyed reading them to have access to them once again._

 _If you need proof that I am who I say I am, you can refer to xxmadworldreveriexx's Author Profile since it's still there_ _._ _I've explained on that account that I'll be starting fresh with this new account (and basically abandoning the former)._

 _Now onto the A/N for this story:_

 _I first wrote Redemption and published it on March of 2014. Since then, I have made plenty of revisions to this story, among them the shift of the story timeline. The language may still sound modern, but I hope that won't be such an issue. Timeline-wise, huge difference. The story has taken a huge leap back to the past, and now takes place in the early 500s. That's a more turbulent time, I would think, and therefore, would help set the story better. If you chance upon certain things that you are very sure doesn't exist in such an ancient timeline, please pardon me and take this story as it is: a fiction._

 _I really hope you guys will enjoy this story now that I have made lots of changes to it, among them adding new scenes and giving deeper insight into the characters and their development._

 _The inspiration for this story, or rather the concept of star-crossed lovers featuring a gladiator and a princess, struck me when I watched the movie Pompeii starring Kit Harington and Emily Browning. Some elements like fight scenes were inspired by the movie Gladiator starring Russell Crowe, and Troy starring Brad Pitt and Eric Bana._

 _Rated M for some coarse language in some scenes and violence and gore. Romance is all a definite T as I am doing my best to keep everything as clean as possible._

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.** (Let's take this disclaimer seriously)._

* * *

 **PROLOGUE: THE DEVIL'S WORK**

 **December 31, 499**

Darkness as black as ink and as thick as velvet engulfed the land of Idris. Save for the tiny specks of silver-white embellishing the ebony sky, the kingdom was plunged in shadows and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of malevolence.

The night was a deceitful beast, a deliverer of pain and anguish.

To some, it was a blessing, a time for solace, and a time for peaceful contemplation and respite. But to others, the night was a curse, an accomplice to the Devil, abetting him in his sinister plans of wreaking destruction upon the Earth and its inhabitants.

And that night, the Devil was very much at work.

* * *

Soft flames flickered from the candle that sat upon the mahogany bedside table, providing an infinitesimal amount of light in the otherwise dark room.

The air, usually still and tranquil, its quiet broken only by the melodic chirping of crickets and the sporadic hooting of its resident owl, was anything but serene. But then again, it was the eve of a new year. They weren't just welcoming another January, but a whole new century. A new era. Safe to say, it was expected to be different.

For as long as the young boy could remember, the 31st day of December had always been imbued with zest and excitement. Each year, even despite his parents' same insistence that he went to bed instead of staying up late to watch the festivities and the celebratory fireworks go off at midnight, he could always, _always_ hear the sounds of people rejoicing in the town square not far from where he lived. And before he went to bed that night, he did hear them.

He had watched from his window, both his parents by his side, and marveled at the sight of the beautiful lights that decorated the town. He'd smiled as he heard the upbeat music waft through the air, spurring the people's energetic dance, and laughed when his parents tugged him to his feet and twirled around the room with him.

They had always done that, he remembered. They would dance with him until his feet would tire and his eyes began to droop with fatigue. His mother had noticed his exhaustion first and coaxed him into bed, and being the stubborn young boy that he was, he'd uselessly tried to argue with her, only to end up yawning like he hadn't slept the entire year.

Eventually he had caved in and crawled into bed, and even though he felt that he was too old to be kissed goodnight, he never pushed his parents away from him when they did.

"We love you," they had said, his father with an old teasing smirk.

"I love you too," he'd mumbled his response, a little embarrassedly, then fought to keep his eyes open the moment they left his room.

Every New Year's Eve, young Jace Herondale had the same resolution: to stay awake long enough to watch the fireworks go off at midnight. Alas, he's never managed to. He would always, somehow, end up sleeping through the night and only be roused in the morning. Up until then, nothing had changed.

He had turned over onto his side, watching the window from where he'd lain, waiting for the moment when he would see those sparks of light explode in the sky and shower it with its magnificent splendor of colors.

There wasn't much he could do when he was only left with a small candle for company, but he did his best to occupy himself. He'd fiddled with his favorite wooden toy soldier—he'd carved an entire set with his father when he was only seven—turning it over and over his palm until sleep took him in its clutches, and the toy soldier fell from his limp hand.

Many times this has happened, and every other time, Jace would wake up in the morning, pouting miserably over his failure. Except this time, he didn't quite get through the night—

Not the way he wanted to anyway.

* * *

 **January 1, 500 _(Part I)_**

The first thing he remembered were the voices.

Deep and unrecognizable, they had sounded like an undecipherable argument between two men. It hadn't been enough to pull him out of his slumber, but sufficient to have roused him a little. Even then, it had been so vague he'd dismissed it as part of a dream. Then came the piercing screech of _metal_ —

That was what had truly awoken him.

Loud and deafening, that even within the inner sanctum of his sleep, Jace could tell every sound apart—the sharp clanging of swords, _real, deadly swords_ , accompanied by the hauntingly shrilling screams of people as they fell, men and women alike. They reverberated off the walls, penetrating and intrusive, that they seemed to come from anywhere and everywhere at once.

And worse still, they sounded so close.

So, _very_ _close_.

They were just outside his bedroom.

Only a single oak-wood door separated him from the chaos outside.

He was unarmed.

He was still too young.

He was not ready to embrace death yet.

 _Oh God—_

Jace's body shook with fear at the realization, and he gripped the hilt of the wooden sword he kept underneath his pillow, hoping it would instil some courage into him. He was no fool, even for a child. If an armed man were to break through his door, and he had no doubt that one would, the wooden sword would do him no good to fend off the threat. Wooden swords were for training, not killing. But he was only ten—almost eleven years old. How could anyone his age even consider killing?

A flash of quick movement caught his eye, and Jace nearly screamed when a dainty hand clamped over his mouth, cutting his cry for help short. His golden eyes shot wide open in absolute terror and shock, even when he connected the hand to its owner—his mother.

She gazed down at him, her eyes as familiar as his own, and he unwittingly released the wooden sword from his grip. It tumbled to the hardwood floor noiselessly—or at least in his mind, it was noiseless. He couldn't hear anything above the pandemonium outside, not while it rivaled with his inner turmoil. So much of him was screaming on the inside, even though he'd always prided himself to be a brave child. There were certain things that were just too terrifying to confront; certain things that were just too frightful.

"Shh, it's all right. It's going to be all right," his mother murmured against his soft, golden-blond locks.

Guiding him to his feet, she cradled him against her before shifting them to hide underneath his bed. Notwithstanding his height—he was growing quickly enough to almost surpass her stature, bearing a lanky frame like most pre-teens—his mother tucked his head underneath her chin, as she had done so many times before when he'd been a much smaller child.

Had circumstances been different, and if he weren't so consumed by fear, Jace would have shrugged his mother off with an embarrassed smile and grumble, "I'm a big boy now." But such wasn't the case. For all his eagerness to grow up, Jace was still very much a child. And like most children, he wanted—no, _needed_ , his mother.

Jace wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, his hot, quick breaths blowing harshly against her neck. He felt her soft lips touch his sweaty forehead once before she began to rub his back soothingly, her arms holding him a little loosely than he'd hoped for. He tightened his arms around her and opened his mouth, trying to convey to her what he wanted. But instead of words, only choked gasps came out of him: loud, unrecognizable, and…strange.

"Jace—Jace, calm down…"

An even louder gasp escaped him as he tightened his grip on his mother, his body convulsing violently against hers. _Help!_ He thought desperately. _Help—Can't breathe!_

Somewhere within the recesses of his mind, it had occurred to him that he was hyperventilating, but he couldn't bring himself to stop it—the panic attack from taking ahold of him, that is. He knew the motions, memorized them, _breathed_ them, but he was doing it too fast, the oxygen entering his mouth in shallow gasps, not enough to properly fill his lungs. They were there, then gone, almost as if he'd forgotten how to do it properly.

"Breathe, sweetheart," his mother coaxed him again, her voice wrapping itself around his mind like a final tether between reality and blackness. "Breathe..."

Letting out another sharp gasp, Jace took in another breath—deeper, slower than the ones before—and captured his bottom lip in between his teeth, willing himself to calm down. His eyes were shut impossibly tight, his grasp loosening the longer he allowed himself to focus on his mother's voice. He couldn't pass out _now_ , even if it seemed like the better, safer option than to remain awake amidst this unexplained nightmare. What would his poor mother do if he were to black out?

"Stay with me, Jace," his mother was begging him now. It would have been so easy to cave into _sleep_ —or rather, to fall into the darkness that was tempting to lure him in—but he knew it in his heart that he couldn't be so selfish. His mother needed him. "Stay awake for me…please, sweetie…please stay awake."

Letting out several more unsteady breaths, he shut his eyes tightly and willed himself to focus solely on his mother's voice—a familiar gentle sound that, on some nights when nightmares haunted his sleep, was his only source of comfort. He allowed it to _anchor_ him. Reaching for his mother's hand, he gripped it, trying desperately to match his breathing with hers. _In, out, in, out, in, out._

It amazed him really, how strong his mother was. He wasn't deluded into believing that she wasn't scared. He _knew_ that she was; he could feel it in the rapid thumping of her pulse. But she was strong enough to put on a mask of bravado for him. She knew better than to let fear consume her.

"Mom," he rasped tiredly, just to give her an indication that he was still alive and awake. She pressed gentle kisses onto the crown of his forehead and released a sigh. It was one of relief, he knew. "Mom, I'm scared," he said, or more likely, whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes and he shivered once, trying to control himself from another breakdown. "I don't want to die."

"I know, sweetheart. I know," she whispered back. "But we'll be okay. I'll protect you." Her voice wavered, but Jace didn't doubt the sincerity of her words—not the latter part of it anyway. He knew how fiercely his mother loved him; she would walk into a raging inferno and take multiple arrows to her chest if it meant that she could save him— _protect_ him. He didn't doubt it.

 _You're safe, Jace,_ he tried reassuring himself. _You're safe as long as she's here. This nightmare will be over soon. It'll pass. There's nothing to be afraid of…_

Slowly turning over onto his back, his aureate eyes flickered towards the burning candle on his bedside table. He expelled another breath, a more controlled and quieter one this time, his gaze transfixed on the soft orange glow. Besides his mother's sweet lullabies, it was the candle flame that often times lulled him to sleep.

He watched, as he had done so many times before, with slightly bowed eyelids as mythical shapes and creatures took form, emerging from the gentle flames. They were always similar, like a perpetual constant: dancing faeries, howling werewolves, and the heroes of his imaginary exploits—brave demon hunters that prowled through the night, protecting the innocent from the vile monsters that descended from the dark. It was a childish habit, he supposed, but one that comforted him more than he cared to admit. It was the perfect distraction. Jace allowed himself to believe that for as long as the candle burned, he would be able to get through the night.

He would be protected.

He would survive.

As his mother stroked his hair, pushing back the few rebellious strands that hovered over his eyes, he focused once more on the flames, imagining that the sounds outside his room weren't that of men killing men, but his valiant demon hunters killing those demons. He imagined himself as one of those demon hunters, wielding a powerful weapon forged from _adamas_ —a seraph blade, he named it. Black powerful marks—which he called runes—decorated his arms and neck like tattoos; one of them in particular shone like gold on his chest: a _fearless_ rune.

He watched, smirking to himself as he sliced his weapon through the demon's heart, causing it to crumple in onto itself and be transported back to its infernal home dimension. _Fearless_ , he repeated, congratulating himself for his demonic kill. _I am fearless._

Just as he allowed his eyes to slip shut, the sliver of a smile still tinging his lips, a tormented masculine yell pierced the air like an earth-shattering quake. Jace jumped an inch high, as if he had been dumped with a bucket of ice-cold water. The voice had sounded so achingly familiar—almost like…

His eyes widened. _No, God—please—No! Not him!_ His mind screamed as sheer hopelessness began to claw its way into his heart, his calm façade disintegrating until they were no more than cold, useless cinders. The candle flame no longer bore the shapes of the characters from his stories, but remained as it was—a flame which glow was quickly petering out.

He turned away from the dying candle, a muffled sob escaping his lips as his mother huddled closer to him. She tilted his chin towards her, gently forcing him to meet her eyes—the same golden eyes that mirrored his, laden with the same emotions he felt: love, worry, anxiety, and above all, fear.

"Hush, sweetheart. Your father's fine. We're going to be fine," his mother told him, her voice catching mid-sentence as she gently stroked his fair curls. But Jace wasn't fooled. Even for a child, he was perceptive enough to detect the thick feeling of doubt that laid beneath her words.

 _It isn't going to be fine. Far from it,_ he thought. If his father couldn't defeat what evil laid beyond his bedroom door, then how could his _mother_? She was undoubtedly a strong woman, both in spirit and mind, but skilled in _combat_? Absolutely not.

"He's fine. Stephen's fine," his mother continued to mutter, as if she didn't even realize that she was speaking aloud, or at least, loudly enough for Jace to hear her. Try as she might to hold it all together, he could see the grief and submission seep into his mother's eyes. Her stalwart hope and courage was faltering, and she was close to breaking down and losing it completely. He knew it from the way she was trembling, and how her breaths had turned slightly choppy, as if she was crying, but silently and without tears.

The sight of her cracked veneer—of possibly, a _widow_ mourning her dead husband—was almost too painful for him to bear, so he averted his eyes, looking at anywhere but her. He fixed his stare at the cursed door over his shoulder, willing his father to walk through it, unscathed and smirking carelessly like he always did. But the longer he stared, the stronger it hit him that it would never happen. Stephen would never come through that door again. He didn't even know if _they_ would ever be able to get out from underneath his bed, to see the other side of that door—if they would even last long enough to see the sun.

It seemed horribly morbid—for anyone, much less a young _boy_ —to bear even the tiniest semblance of acceptance of death, and truth be told, it was extremely hard for Jace to accept it either. He didn't _want_ to die. He didn't want _either_ of his parents to die. He could feel the crippling tension—the madness creeping up on him at the thought. Was it possible for a young boy to go crazy? Was it possible that he was delirious, or that he was having an extremely vivid nightmare? He had pinched himself several times just to ascertain himself that no, he was awake, this was _truly_ happening. Even then, he couldn't help but pray that he was wrong.

 _Please God, please. Let this all just be a dream. It's not real—Don't let it be real._

* * *

From then on, time dragged by agonizingly slowly that each passing minute to Jace felt like being entrapped in an eternity of purgatory. He shuddered at the thought. He'd read about purgatory once, having exhausted nearly all of the literary fiction in the library, he'd moved onto the non-fiction genre. By chance, one of the first books he had picked up was on purgatory—a place between heaven and hell.

His mother had chided him when she found out what he was reading, but Jace had shrugged her off. He had always been intelligent for his age and tended to be indiscriminate when it came to his reading selection. But he digressed. The huge difference in this situation was, he didn't know if it was 'heaven' exactly that awaited him when the bloodbath ceased. There was a good chance as any that he would face his own condemnation. He could _die_ , too.

"It's almost over," his mother whispered as if sensing his thoughts. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled shakily when their eyes met.

 _Are you okay?_ He wanted to ask, but chickened out at the last minute. Her golden eyes still conveyed grief, but for the most part, he could see that she was making an effort to keep it together for him. He wished he could be strong enough to shoulder all her pain.

"It'll be okay, Jace," she assured him.

A couple of hours must have passed when the bedlam outside finally showed signs of abating, the spine chilling sounds of fighting and massacring progressively dwindling as the night waned. The sounds of swords clashing became quieter and less, and there was less screaming, less yelling, less groaning, less begging, just…less.

Then finally, the silence came.

Jace lifted his head a little, and glanced at the door the exact same time his mother did. He didn't expect it to be possible, but he realized that the silence scared him even more—infinitely more. _What's going on? Is it over? Are the bad people gone?_ He wanted to ask his mother these questions and a dozen more, but found that he, too, was held captive by the delicate silence—he feared that if he were to break it, then all hell would break loose again.

In the end, it was neither him nor his mother who spoke first, but a voice _on the other side of that door._ Jace strained his ears, trying to listen, trying to decide whose voice it was. But the door separating them from the outside was surprisingly thick, and muffled the man's speech—at least, he was certain that it was a man. The tenor of his voice was too deep to be otherwise.

More noises followed soon after: three cries of huzza from the triumphant group; the voices of commanders giving orders; and the dutiful responses of the remaining soldiers before they set off to do as they were told; followed by another garish silence.

Jace found himself holding his breath, his fears warring against the return of the smallest flicker of hope. He didn't want to be lulled into a false sense of security, however, he couldn't help but mull over the good possibilities. Could it be that he had been overthinking everything earlier? Could it be that he was wrong? Could it be that the yell he had heard earlier wasn't his father's? Could it be that his mother was right? Were they really going to be fine?

God, he wanted more than anything to just wake up from this nightmare, with both of his parents by his side. He had cut himself off from his deluded thinking that it wasn't real—that the moment he left this room, he would probably be met with the gory sight of corpses and blood. A lot of blood. Nevertheless, a boy could still be hopeful of good things… _right?_

His dim reassurances were cut short as heavy footsteps equaling to the sound of crackling thunder began to dangerously approach his bedroom door.

Jace blanched as an ominous feeling overtook him again. Nothing about those footsteps—heavy, calculative, measured—alluded that their owner was a person with 'friendly' intentions. If anything, he probably had a face that was akin to a demon's, with horns sprouting from his head and sharp talons protruding from his long, scaly fingers. Jace knew who it _wasn't_ —

It wasn't his father.

And though there was a fifty percent chance that he could be wrong, his gut feel told him that it wasn't anyone else he knew either. It wasn't his Uncle Robert, his father's councilmen or his guards. His mother seemed to know it too as she began to crawl forward from their hiding position, a dagger encrusted with jewels and rubies clutched tightly in her right hand.

Jace's body stiffened, and his hand shot out to tug his mother's arm back. Their aureate eyes locked, hers hesitant and torn with loss and conflict, his marked by a single, silent plea: _Please don't go, Mom. Hide with me—Don't leave me._

Her eyes glossed over with tears before they hardened—not in the cold, unfeeling way, but one that conveyed obstinacy. "No matter what happens, keep quiet and stay hidden," his mother whispered, her tone sounding so heartbreakingly melancholic that Jace felt his own heart squeeze. She took several moments longer to study his face, tracing each of his features—his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth—with her fingertips, as if she were memorizing him; as if she were saying to him, _"I want my last memory to be of your face—my son."_

"I love you— _Jace_ ," she said, her voice cracking painfully as she spoke his name. A lone tear escaped her left eye and rolled down her cheek, and Jace realized in that moment that his mother didn't want to leave him as much as he didn't want her to; that it physically pained her to do this. But this was Celine Herondale, a mother whose love for her son surpassed any amount of self-preservation she had. The determination was transparent in her golden eyes. She wanted to protect him, no matter what the consequences were for her.

So when she planted a soft kiss on his forehead, and gently pried his fingers away from her arm, Jace did as he was told; he didn't fight his mother on her decision. Not when she shakily rolled to her feet and trudged towards the door, each step bringing her closer and closer to the unknown threat, and further, _further_ away from him. Not when the footsteps on the other side of the door grew louder and louder, threatening _them_ —the only two occupants in the room—that he was coming for them next. Not when he saw his mother falter minutely in her step, barely discernible in her hesitation, before she recovered, inching closer to the door.

It only took a second, but just as his mother let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing loudly in the taut silence of the room, the door burst open with such brute force that the wooden panel flew apart from its hinges. Jace flinched the exact same time his mother did; she narrowly dodged the flying piece of wood, but the moment the imposing shadow came into sight, she ran forward, raising the dagger shakily yet determinedly, the honed tip poised to attack the intruder.

She was only seconds away from sinking the dagger into the man's chest when his arm flew out, throwing her backwards with an insurmountable force. Her skull hit the polished wooden floor with a loud and sickening crack, making Jace shudder furiously. He pressed his trembling hand against his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip hard to repress a sob.

A heavily built man strode into the room casually, arrogance and aggression radiating from him in waves. Despite the darkness that shrouded the room, the moonlight provided enough illumination for Jace to discern the man's features; his hair was a salt-white color and his eyes an inky black. A long, fresh wound ran down the side of his face, and a splatter of blood stood out garishly against the sleeve of the white shirt he donned underneath his armored suit.

The man looked down at Jace's mother with pure disgust writ all over his harsh, angular face. "Stupid bitch," he bellowed in a deep voice, raising a heavy boot and landing a sharp kick to her abdomen.

There was a resounding snap that followed his mother's loud cry of agony, indicating either a cracked or broken rib, or several—Jace didn't know. His heart ached with wretched despair when she clutched at her stomach protectively, and the man abruptly knelt down beside her crumpled form. Her body was angled away from him so he couldn't see her face. Still, he saw as she lifted her head gingerly; he noticed when her back stiffened and the man flashed her a crooked, predator-like grin.

" _Valentine—_ "His mother choked, her voice barely even a whisper. Had it been any other situation, Jace would have snickered at the sound of the man's name (what sort of man called himself Valentine?), but this was no laughing situation. In fact, there was nothing laughable about the man. Just the look of his eyes—a deep, black swirl resembling the bottom of an endless chasm—was enough to make him shiver irrepressibly. Suddenly, he couldn't think past the growing itch for the man to turn his head away, to spare him from having to look at… _him_.

"Celine…" The man—Valentine—drawled his mother's name in every manner that sounded suggestive and… _sick_. "We meet again, at long last. Time has been kind to you, I see…" Jace clamped his hand tighter over his mouth, fighting back a whimper as he watched the man slowly caressing his mother's face. "You are still as radiant as the day I left…"

As if awoken by his touch, his mother flinched away from Valentine's hand, then jerked forward once, spitting into the latter's face. "Don't touch me!" She shrieked.

Valentine lurched backwards with a menacing growl, and his body shook, the furious pulsing in his neck a testament to his rage. He harshly swiped a hand over his face to get rid of the saliva, then turned his glare on Jace's mother. If possible, his black eyes grew even _darker_.

There was no hesitation on his part when he backhanded her, causing her head to whip to the side from his blow. His spite didn't stop there. He pounced on top of her and straddled her hips, making her writhe violently from beneath him. Her hands flew everywhere, shoving uselessly at his solid chest and shoulders, savagely scratching his face.

Valentine let out another outraged yell before catching both her wrists in his vise-grip, then pinning them firmly above her head. Even then, Jace's mother continued to scream, a sharp, piercing sound that made him wish for silence.

"Get off of me! Let go!" Sobs racked her as she fought against his hold. Tears streamed down Jace's cheeks at her struggle. " _Stephen!_ STEPHEN!"

"SHUT UP!" Valentine roared. Grabbing her by her hair, he smashed the back of her head against the floor roughly, eliciting another thundering crack.

With a stuttered cry of pain, his mother went slack with defeat, her head undoubtedly bleeding and pounding from the impact of the Valentine's menacing assault. The white-haired man grinned. Pressing more of his weight on her, he leaned down until his mouth was directly next to her ear. "Now that your husband's dead, I shall make you _mine_ , and I will take you just the way _I_ like it."

Jace froze. Ten years old or not, he understood what Valentine was implying with those words. Still, he could do nothing but shove his fist into his own mouth and bite down on the skin, the excessive stream of tears clouding his vision. A quick death would have been so much more merciful than having to endure… _this_.

For a fleeting moment, he considered leaving his hiding place, knocking Valentine out with a brass candelabrum, and fleeing this hellish scene with his mother, but he knew it was a foolish notion. Valentine was bigger, stronger, and infinitely faster than either of them. They wouldn't stand a chance—not against Valentine, and definitely not against his army if they escaped his clutches. He could only imagine how much worse their punishment would be then. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't disobey his mother and lead them to a fate worse than this.

He just… _couldn't_.

Through rheumy eyes, Jace watched as his mother shook her head vigorously, pleading with Valentine to not do it, to show her mercy, but the sadistic fiend only gave her a cold and unsympathetic smirk. "Go on—beg. I like it when women beg," he sneered. His hands tugged at her dress as he grinned and ran his tongue over his bottom lip salaciously.

"Please, don't! No! No! NO! _"_ His mother squirmed and kicked at Valentine's hands but it didn't slow his advances one bit. Instead, he let out a deep, grating cackle that seemed to resonate from his belly, his hands moving deftly to undo his own trousers, the heavy, metal buckle of his belt hitting the floor with a deafening clank.

* * *

The next few minutes flew by in a torturous daze. Jace watched in hopeless silence as the spiteful man ravaged his mother, her piercing screams permeating the air as he continued his merciless assault. With each passing second, he felt his every breath leave him in a shudder, yet this time, it wasn't entirely because of fear, but rather, an increasingly burning hatred for Valentine and the situation that he and his mother were put in.

He wanted so badly to put an end to the loathsome fiend's actions and punish him ten times over for what he had done—and was still doing—to his family, but he couldn't. _He couldn't move._ His limbs felt as if they were made of lead, and his soul was as good as detached from his body. Shockingly, it filled him with even more anger and hatred towards _himself_.

Logically, he knew that the reason he was holding himself back from doing anything was to stave off an even worse punishment than the one his mother was going through. But it still did not tamp down that feelings of self-resentment, nor did it subdue the assault of questions such as, ' _Why aren't you doing anything to stop this?_ ' and ' _How could you watch him do this to your own mother?_ ' Worse still, he kept hearing those questions in his father's voice, and could even imagine the look of disapproval and disappointment flashing across his face.

 _'I've already taught you all I could so that you would have the knowledge to defend yourself—and your mother in my absence!'_ He imagined his father berating him. _'How could you, her only son, be so pathetic and weak? Where is your sense of duty? Your mother is your responsibility—yours to protect. Why aren't you helping her?'_

Jace turned his face toward the floor, eyes clamped shut, and smothered the pained moan lingering in his throat. More tears flowed down his face as he mourned for his father and mother. For all of his cowardice, he knew that he probably didn't deserve God's favor, but he still prayed for forgiveness, for neither of his mother nor father to fault him for his weakness. _Please don't let them hate me. Please let this end soon. Please just make him leave._

 _You know he won't just leave,_ his subconscious voice whispered. _Nothing will ever be the same again and you know it. You can't hide down there forever_ — _He'll find you next and kill you. This nightmare is far from over._

A loud, pleasured moan from Valentine pulled Jace out of his self-pitying thoughts. He looked up in time to watch the fiend freeze above his mother, shudder, then slump forward as if incapable of bearing his own weight. Another eternity passed when Valentine finally detached himself from his unwilling partner, a baleful smirk on his face as he readjusted his garments. Not an ounce of guilt lingered on his face as he looked down her. Instead he only looked fulfilled and _pleased_ with himself.

Anger surged through Jace. _Monster_ , he thought derisively. How could any human being look like that—to be so proud of himself for having hurt another man's wife? For assaulting an innocent woman into a broken shell of herself? For the first time that night, Jace felt his hands involuntarily clenching into tight fists.

"Cover yourself up, you filthy whore. And don't expect me to clean up after you," Valentine spat. He nudged his boot against her skull, causing her head to loll to the side—in Jace's direction.

Jace's heart clenched and his scowl wavered when he saw his mother's face. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping, but she looked far from at peace, her expression tortured and pained. He could barely even hear her breathing anymore; nothing about her indicated that she was still alive. _I did this_ , he thought, horrified. _I could have tried to stop him—but I didn't. I let him do it. I'm a failure of the worst kind._

Unable to stop himself, Jace let out a small whimpering noise—one that, regrettably, reached Valentine's keen ears and lured his rapacious attention. As soon as their eyes met, the latter's coal-black ones charring into his gold, the corner of Valentine's lips curled up into a hideous smirk, and he charged towards him with an undeterred purpose.

Before Jace could even react, his large hands shot forward, clutching his arms tightly. Jace fought and thrashed against his hold, but Valentine proved that he was, indeed, a far more superior opponent. The moment his body hit the hardwood floor with an unceremonious thud, Jace let out an audible grunt. His arms ached and his heart was racing so fast, but it all became inconsequential when he noticed his mother lying motionless next to him.

Willing himself to his knees, he swept the strands of her dirty blond hair—now matted down with blood and sweat—away from her face. As if recognizing his touch, his mother's eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing a pair of golden irises that was very much identical to his own.

"Mom," he whimpered, carefully lowering himself to embrace his mother. She responded to his hug, though noticeably weakly, before pulling back to brush away the curls hovering over his eyes. Jace's eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.

"Jace—" She could barely even manage a whisper at this point, not that he blamed her. He opened his eyes to look at her; her eyes reflected the same fear she'd held moments before, only now it seemed to have amplified. She shook her head, as if disappointed in him for disobeying her orders. "R-run. Run…"

"No—I'm not leaving you," he said stubbornly.

His gaze trailed down her body. Bruises in the shape of Valentine's rough hands and teeth littered the bared skin of her body, and blood… Blood trickled down the apex of the thighs, marking where the beast had been. Rage surged through Jace once more, filling him with a foreign itch to make the older man bleed. _He_ had done this. _He_ had hurt his mother.

"I'm sorry," she rasped. "I can't. I can't anymore. Leave now, Jace—Leave me." Each of his mother's word pierced him, making him feel as if splinters of glass were being pushed into his chest. Deeper and deeper they went, until they were almost impossible to pull out. How could she say such a thing? How could she possibly tell him to leave her? _Him—leave—her?_

"Don't say that, Mom. I can't leave you," he said, his jaw clenching with emotion. "I'm not ready to lose you yet. You—" _You're supposed to watch me grow up. You're supposed to be there for me when I marry some day. You're supposed to grow old enough to be a grandmother and hold your first grandchild in your arms. Not now. Please, not now._

But it was never Jace's decision to make.

Just as his mother lifted her hand to console him, her eyes suddenly widened in horror, and before either of them could react, a sword descended upon her neck, splattering blood all over his face. A gush of breath left Jace's body in an instant, and for the longest minute, he was paralyzed in shock. His mother was gone.

 _My mother is gone. My mother is gone. My mother is gone,_ an emotionless voice buzzed repeatedly in his head. He couldn't even bring himself to move an inch of his muscles or even cry anymore. He felt like a vessel, empty and hollow on the inside.

A sadistic and manic laugh broke Jace out of his catatonic state, and he whipped around, fury and loathing blazing in his golden eyes. He didn't even think twice before the foul words came hurling out of his mouth.

"YOU MONSTER! I'LL KILL YOU!" He snarled before racing towards his mother's dagger, which laid discarded several feet away.

Just as Jace's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger, Valentine raised his own sword, and brought the hilt down harshly onto his temple, seizing his movements instantly.

As Jace slowly faded into unconsciousness, he took a final glance at his mother's corpse and silently swore to avenge her death.

* * *

 _ **A/N: So there you have it! The revised prologue of Redemption. This story is the first complete multi-chapter story I've ever written, and though I would agree that there are definitely better fanfics out there, this story is ultimately my pride and joy. My baby.**_

 _ **If you guys enjoyed it, please take the time to review, follow or favorite it! I will be most grateful for it.**_

 _ **Until then, xo!**_


	2. Chapter 1: Fall From Grace

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1: FALL FROM GRACE**

 **January 1, 500 _(Part II)_**

A splash of cold water upon his face jolted Jace awake from the fresh memory of his mother's death that plagued his mind's eye unsparingly during his slumber. He sat up, fuming as he came face-to-face with the culprit who had thrown the bucket of water on him.

White-blond hair, pitch-black eyes like a demon—

His mother's murderer.

Instant rage flared in Jace's eyes, and he bared his teeth into a snarl, an animalistic growl emanating from deep within his throat. He didn't even register the feelings of fear and hopelessness that had taken hold of him the night before. Now, there was only one emotion that controlled him: _anger_. He could feel it simmering in his blood, scorching hot that even his skin burned with fever. He didn't care if the man were to take his sword and run it through his chest. Jace had never been raised to be violent, but he wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a bloody pulp—to end him.

" _Murderer,_ " he seethed, his nails unconsciously pricking into his own skin. "Heartless, spineless—"

The man chuckled, seemingly amused with his attempts to intimidate him. "Aww… Look at that. Stephen did teach his son a few words after all. _Impressive_ ," he jeered sarcastically as he patted Jace's head, mocking him as if he were a pet dog.

Jace didn't even hesitate with his response. " _Go to hell,_ " he spat, jerking his head up to bite the fiend's hand. It only lasted for several seconds, but he sank his teeth into the flesh as hard as he could, drawing the latter's blood into his mouth. It reeked of iron and tasted foul, but at the same time, Jace didn't mind it. Let the contemptuous monster feel what little pain he could inflict, he thought bitterly.

Shouting in pain, the man drew his hand back and punched him squarely in the face, causing blood to trickle from his nose and down his chin. As his head whipped to the side, Jace spat out the dreadful-tasting ichor before agilely springing to his feet. His efforts to retaliate proved to be futile as he discovered that his hands were, unfortunately, bound to the wall by chains.

 _Patting my head. Chaining me up like a dog. Great, just great,_ Jace thought scornfully as he kicked at the gravelly ground, the chains rattling noisily with his movements.

His bitten hand clutched to his chest, the man leveled him with a disdainful glare. "You will regret your actions soon enough, _child_ ," he spat out venomously. "The spawn of Stephen and Celine Herondale, I promise you—You will _rue_ the day that you were born," he said, pointing a finger at Jace threateningly as the latter, unfazed, matched his glare. Irked by his unflagging recalcitrance, the man growled loudly before turning to exit the room, the metal door falling shut behind him with an unnecessarily loud clang.

Jace rolled his eyes at the detestable man's dramatic exit. _And I'm supposed to be the ten-year-old throwing a tantrum here?_ He shook his head, took in several deep breaths to compose himself, before assessing the room that he was imprisoned in.

As expected, it wasn't much to begin with. The room was relatively small and stuffy; its only source of light came from the wooden torch hung by the wall closest to the door. A heavy putrid smell, suspiciously like blood and rotting flesh, hung in the air, making Jace feel slightly nauseous. He didn't even want to think about whose bodies were dumped down here with him, so he bit down on the tip of his tongue, forcing back the bile from making an unwanted appearance. The glaring absence of windows seemed to indicate that his cell was located underground, although where exactly he wasn't sure. He couldn't recall there ever being dungeons within the palace grounds.

"Where is this place?" Jace asked to no one in particular. Letting his head drop backwards against the moldy wall, he let out a loud and frustrated sigh. He might have been left alone for now, but for how long? Why didn't the man just kill him like he'd killed his parents? What was his motive for keeping him alive?

 _Curse that DEMON,_ he thought derisively, the anger and contempt building up in him yet again. Could his mother hear his thoughts right now, he was certain that she would have flushed a deep scarlet with anger. Jace had been taught to _never_ curse—although he had heard plenty of such words from his father's soldiers in passing. The one time he had ever said something remotely profane in front of his mother, she had slapped him silly on the mouth and told him to never spout such things ever again, lest he wanted to have his mouth washed with a bar of soap.

 _Well, she's not here anymore, is she?_ A bitter voice whispered at the back of his mind. And the more Jace thought of it, the more he felt that his anger was warranted, justified even. If his mother were in his shoes, wouldn't she have felt the same way he did? Even a kind and gentle soul like her wouldn't have found any of this tolerable; _she_ would have cursed at the people who were hurting them, too.

 _Why would it even matter? SHE'S NOT HERE!_ The voice repeated, causing Jace to fist his hair in his hands. As he gingerly moved them to rub his palms over his face, his mind flashed back to the previous night's events—

The chaos that had woken him up from his peaceful sleep. His mother rushing into his room and pulling him underneath his bed to hide. His father's yell as he was killed outside his room. His mother attacking the man before he overpowered her. His mother's screams as she was raped. Her dull, lifeless golden eyes even before the man slaughtered her in front of him.

His chest throbbed with the pain and loss of his family, yet the tears refused to come. Instead, he only felt his hatred for the man grow, blossoming in his chest like another entity, a _demon_ impatiently awaiting its release from its pentagram.

 _I will avenge my parents. And I will return the favor tenfold,_ he vowed. _I'll kill_ him _, if it's the last thing I'll ever do. He and his family will pay._

The sound of the heavy metal door being heaved open broke Jace out of his loathsome trance. He dropped his hands to his sides and glanced up at his visitor, his face automatically screwing into a frown.

In the doorway stood a man clad in military attire similar to his mother's murderer, though from the looks of it, he was more likely his subordinate. He had messy dark brown hair that fell just over his ears, and gray-blue eyes that, for some strange reason Jace could not comprehend, held a tinge of warmth and compassion—much unlike the other man, whom he decided for the time being to refer to as 'the demon'. His memory could not chalk up the man's actual name, and he really didn't care to try remembering either.

"Prince Jace," the soldier greeted him. Oddly, he sounded gentle and apologetic, which surprised Jace. Nevertheless, that did not stop him from scowling bitterly at the man as he approached him.

"What do you want?" Jace snapped coldly, his golden eyes harboring the smolder of hatred he felt for the demon, and his _followers_ in general.

"Lord Valentine has ordered me to bring you to the market. You are to be sold as a slave." The name sparked a bitter reminder of last night and Jace pressed his lips into a thin line. Ah, so _that_ was his name.

"Valentine?" He hissed as if it were a curse. For all intents and purposes, it _should_ be. "You mean that demon who raped my mother and murdered my parents?" The man's eyes flickered, seemingly taken aback by his words, but he composed himself rather quickly, returning Jace's glare with a steady and neutral gaze. He opened his mouth in a gesture to speak but Jace cut him off.

"Why sell me as a slave? Why not just kill me?" He taunted him, self-preservation the furthest thing from his mind. Why couldn't he have been like this last night? Why only now, after his mother was gone, did he finally grow a spine? Jace shook with anger—at Valentine, his people, but mostly, at himself. "Letting me live while he takes over my father's kingdom… He's making a _stupid_ mistake, if you ask me. Mark my words… I _will_ kill him. And I will kill his entire family for what he's done to my family."

The man's mouth hung agape at his spiteful words but before he could attempt to say anything, another voice cut in.

"I would like to see you try, young prince." The cool, steely voice belonging to Valentine boomed as he sauntered into the room. Jace's hands shook furiously at the sight of man's ascetic face, the chains clattering as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "Why keep you alive? Making a stupid mistake you say..." Valentine stroked his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. It didn't escape Jace's attention that his hand—the one he had bitten earlier—was now bandaged. " _I_ say it's all part of my well-thought and elaborate plan to get revenge on your pathetic excuse of a father."

Valentine grinned as he folded his arms across his chest in an authoritative stance, his gaze hard on Jace's. "Picture this…the last bloodline of the Herondales and former heir to the Idrisian throne reduced to the bottom of the common trash, serving commoners, no less." He chuckled darkly. "That's sure to make your father roll over in his grave in humiliation as his feeble and helpless son is treated and tortured like a worthless slave. Even in death, your father won't be able to rest in peace. He'll watch as his only beloved son crumbles from his former life of glory while his enemy takes over the kingdom he worked so hard to build and protect."

Bending down so that he was eye-level with Jace, Valentine uttered in a low, calculated voice, "Think of yourself as the collateral damage. Your father had crossed me _deeply_ —on more than one occasion in the past, if I may add—and you are simply..." He twirled his hand in the air carelessly. "Atoning for his mistakes."

* * *

His hands shackled tightly in front of him, Jace trudged forward as Valentine's second-in-command, who had introduced himself as Lucian Graymark, or 'Luke' for short, flanked him on his right. They had set off for the market just shy of an hour after Valentine had come to bid Jace farewell and 'good luck' for his new life as a slave, and despite the amount of time that had passed, he was still fuming.

Jace wished he could have done more, tried harder to pounce onto Valentine, maybe even bite his other hand for good measure, but the latter had been smart enough to keep his distance, eyeing him as if he were a rabid dog that needed to be put down.

 _Good riddance to him_ , he thought, only half-heartedly. He loathed being in the man's presence, but knowing that he was alive and soon to be out of his reach, Jace loathed the idea even more. How was he supposed to kill Valentine if he couldn't _see_ him? For all he knew, their encounter in the cells was probably the last time he would ever see of the man.

Jace nearly ran his hands through his hair, but stopped when he realized that the movement would be stunted by the shackles binding his wrists. He scowled at them. Valentine had made sure that they were chained onto him unnecessarily tight, that if he moved his hands too much, the metal would cut into his skin and hurt him. As a matter of fact, his skin was _already_ throbbing. He wouldn't be surprised that once they were removed, he would see angry red scars circling his wrists.

"Are you hurt?" Luke sounded genuinely concerned as he regarded the chains surrounding Jace's wrists. Jace snapped his head towards him, his golden eyes sharp and cold despite the warmth he saw in Luke's.

"Hurt seems like an awfully inadequate word, considering the circumstances," he said in a flat tone. "If you're referring to the physical state of my wrists, then yes, they clearly hurt." He held Luke's gaze, calculating his reaction. He knew that he was being rude, and unnecessarily so, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry or regretful. After all, if Luke was truly a good man, then why was he aiding Valentine?

"If you're referring to my mental and emotional state after losing both of my parents, my home, and very soon, my right as a human… I'll leave that to you to think about when you're on your way back to report to your _king_." He lowered his voice. "I may be a child but I'm not stupid. I just hope you realize what a huge mistake you're making by allying yourself with Valentine. He may have won my father's kingdom now, but one day he won't have it anymore. One day, I'll be back. I will take back what's mine and I won't be as kind."

Stark silence fell over them in the aftermath of Jace's words. Valentine and his followers might have underestimated him, but _he_ knew that they weren't just a bunch of empty promises. One of the many lessons his parents had imparted unto him was to never lie—and he wasn't lying now. His future might be gray with uncertainty, but he knew this one fact like it was a guarantee: he would return to Idris one day to seek his vengeance. He would live through whatever hurdles that his slave life would throw at him, because it would be worth it in the end when he finally killed Valentine. It _will_ be worth it.

As they entered the market, Jace noticed that it was much more packed than usual, people milling about their business and chattering idly amongst themselves. He recognized some of the townspeople—the shopkeepers, mostly, while the rest were a blur of foreign faces.

He growled underneath his breath as one too many people shoved past his shoulder, but none stopped to glance back, much less utter a quick 'I'm sorry'. Where had all their manners disappeared to? Even if he weren't royalty, it was still basic courtesy to apologize for running into someone, Jace thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

He considered the possibility that he was overreacting—and perhaps, to an extent, he was. He definitely couldn't deny the fact that he was frustrated, or disappointed, or angry. After all, just a couple hours ago, the kingdom had been invaded and their king and queen slaughtered, yet the people reacted as if it were any other day to be frolicking about the market and gossip about the day's affairs. There were no tears, no mourning, no show of respect for recently fallen royal family. It was as if they had never existed. It was as if no one _cared_ —and that hurt Jace more than he wanted to admit. Was it possible that the Herondales meant so little to their people, despite all they've done for them?

 _What am I to them then? Just another name? Another face in the crowd?_

"Stick close to me," Luke advised as he took Jace by his forearm. Jace was too weary to protest, so he let the older man guide him to wherever they were going to, rolling his eyes impatiently every now and then.

After several more instances of 'accidental' shoulder-hits—his irritable self was convinced that the insufferable passers-by were doing it on purpose—he decided to behave a little immaturely and retaliate, earning him some dirty looks and expletives in return. He didn't care enough to react to them though, his face seemingly twisted into a permanent scowl. After the initial dread had come to pass and acceptance set in, Jace was ready for all this hassle to be over and done with. He was ready to start his life as a slave and live with his new master. After all, the sooner, the better, right? At least once he was settled in and adjusted to his slave life, he could start planning his escape and how he would confront Valentine.

 _All in good time,_ his conscience interjected.

 _That_ , too, nearly made him roll his eyes. After last night, time seemed an awful lot like a luxury. Jace had thought that he'd have more time— _years_ to spend with both of his parents—and look at where all that time had disappeared to, gone within the blink of an eye. It was almost impossible to be patient anymore.

"Here we are," Luke announced, stopping in front of a makeshift wooden stage that was set up in the middle of the market's square.

Perched on top of the stage was a portly gentleman dressed to the nines, much like most of the aristocrats in Idris. Behind him, in stark contrast, stood a line of men, women and children alike dressed in drab attire—or in Jace's frank opinion, rags.

 _Slaves_ , he thought, his eyebrows furrowed deeply as he scrutinized them. _The stout fellow on stage must be in charge of the slavery trade then._

Jace winced as Luke reached for his hands and freed the shackles from his wrists. His earlier suspicions proved to be right; he could already see the red marks circling his wrists, and he was even bleeding a little. Luke's thumb hovered over one of the raised red lines, and he dug into his pocket to retrieve a small brown vial. Without warning, he unscrewed the cap and poured a transparent-looking liquid onto Jace's scarred wrists, causing him to yelp in pain.

"Sorry about that," Luke apologized. "I wanted to make sure that your hands didn't get infected."

Jace wrenched his hands away, clenching his jaw a little. "A little warning would have been appreciated," he muttered underneath his breath, before gingerly rubbing at his throbbing wrists. "Thanks," he added, a little begrudgingly.

"Ahh, General Graymark." A cheery voice interrupted them. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Looking for some slaves for the new king? I am sure I will be able to find him some suitable ones to accommodate his needs," the corpulent gentleman Jace had singled out earlier spoke in a much too eager voice.

"On the contrary, Malachi, no, that is not why I am here. King Valentine has sent me here to hand this boy over to you. He is to be sold as a slave," Luke replied good-naturedly as he gestured towards Jace. Jace stood up straighter as he was mentioned, his chin angled upwards, exuding an air of confidence like his father had taught him.

Malachi's eyes raked Jace up and down as if he were examining a specimen (or a piece of antiquity to be sold at an auction), before a look of recognition flashed over his face. "The boy?" He pointed to Jace. "P-prince Ja-Jace?" He stuttered questioningly, an eyebrow rose in confusion and partial disbelief. The way he was looking at him was akin to a man coming face-to-face with a ghost.

Jace scoffed in disgust. _Yes, I'm still alive… Sorry to disappoint you._

Beside him, Luke nodded. "Yes, he is."

Malachi continued to stare at Jace, his mouth slightly agape. "I know I'm a stunningly attractive child, but you don't need to stare," Jace spoke up cockily. "It's terribly impolite. If my father was here, he wouldn't approve of your actions."

Malachi cleared his throat as his face flushed in slight embarrassment. "I-I…um," he stuttered, a complete opposite to his previous demeanor. "What I meant to—I meant…"

Jace quirked his eyebrow at him in challenge, though he was silently chuckling at the man's inability to string together a coherent sentence. "Go on," he said, flourishing his hand mockingly. "Time is ticking…I'm sure we all can do without your lack of speechlessness. You seemed so excited before."

Malachi cleared his throat again before asserting himself, his eyes turning hard. "Right. Though it may be, your father is neither the king, nor is he alive—therefore, I don't take orders from you anymore. Come this way," he finished hastily before gesturing for Jace to come join him and the other slaves onstage.

Luke gave Jace a parting nod, which the latter, despite himself, found returning before the soldier finally took his leave. Jace heaved a slow breath through his mouth. Giving himself a silent speech of motivation, he strode up the steps confidently, where he was immediately directed to the front of the stage.

As he positioned himself next to Malachi, he became fully aware of the attention that he had acquired from the crowd idly meandering through the square. Amongst the throng of people that had gathered in front of the stage, he spotted faces light up in recognition of his identity, some looking appalled and others simply surprised. Hushed whispers and murmurs ran through them, each one curiously musing about the young prince and what he was doing amongst the slavery stock.

Once Malachi had finished addressing the crowd's inquiries, the square erupted in a pandemonium, though not in the way Jace had been hoping for—not even close. He had hoped that someone, loyal or simply compassionate, would come to his defense, to put an end to this slavery nightmare, but no dice. Just like everything that had happened last night, his life only continued to spiral downward.

 _"Two hundred silver shillings!"_

 _"Three hundred and one!"_

 _"Five hundred!"_

 _"Eight hundred!"_

 _"Eight hundred and fifty!"_

Jace kept his disposition collected and indifferent, tuning out the noises of people shouting over one another their bidding prices in order to earn him as their slave. Each one of them sent prickles of heat shooting through his heart, but he let nothing show. Not his rage. Not his disappointment. His mind was a different story altogether. His head burned from all the pent-up anger he was struggling to hold in.

 _So this is what it means to be_ nothing _,_ he thought sourly. _Traitors_ , every single one of them. None of them cared for him. None of them cared about what had happened to the royal family— _The royal family that had, up until their deaths, been looking after all these ungrateful people and keeping them out of poverty and starvation,_ he added to himself.

 _Look around again, Jace,_ his conscience urged him. _How many of these people do you actually recognize to be your own? Other than the shopkeepers and busybodies, you don't see the usual crowd. Your father's councilmen, your mother's friends…none of them are here._

Jace's blood went cold at the realization. He had been so blinded with rage over his own personal loss, he didn't even stop to think about whether the rest of his people—the good, loyal ones—had survived Valentine's attack last night. Had the demon gathered all of them for a mass execution, or held them hostage elsewhere to be tortured? The strong smell of decomposition that had been present in the cells… Were those bodies belonging to _his_ people?

For the hundredth time that day, Jace felt sick to his stomach. How many of them were dead? He wondered, his face turning as white as a sheet. He wanted to double over and puke his guts out on-stage, but then he remembered—these _weren't_ his people. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him weak; he had been humiliated enough.

 _Breathe,_ he remembered his mother telling him last night. _In, out, in, out…_

To distract himself, Jace began tapping his foot in an incessant rhythm, all the while humming the tune of a lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a toddler. An unconscious smile ghosted his lips as he remembered his mother's face. His mother, who had always seemed to look at him with adoration and affection, even when he misbehaved. His mother, who had held him on pedestal, loving him unconditionally—who was now gone. _Because of Valentine._

Jace's smile faded into a scowl as last night's events began to wash over him for the umpteenth time. His mother and father weren't the only ones dead, he reminded himself. But this time, instead of feeling sick, it only fortified his desire to bring Valentine to justice.

As he was musing about how he would execute his revenge on the man whom he hated with a fierce passion, Malachi tapped him on the shoulder, ceasing his plotting effectively and snapping his attention back to the present.

Jace glanced over at Malachi, who was now shoving him excitedly towards a cloaked figure standing by the right corner of the stage.

"Hurry up, boy. We haven't got all day," he was saying with a wide, greedy grin.

Jace shrugged him off and rolled his eyes. "I am perfectly capable of walking myself, no thank you!"

Malachi turned to him with a glare. "Suit yourself, _Your Highness_ ," he sneered sarcastically. "As long as you remember your place now." He stalked off ahead of him, leaving Jace to scowl at his back.

 _Deep breaths, Jace. He's not worth it._ Jace clenched his fist and let out another angry breath. Everyone was out to bait him, apparently. No matter; he wasn't going to fall for any of it. Not now, at least.

Approaching the pair at a purposely slow gait, Jace took his time to examine his new master. He was fairly tall, with a square jaw and curling dark hair, and wore a small, reserved smile on his face. Somehow, he looked oddly familiar—it was almost as if Jace had known him from another life. It both startled and unsettled him. How could a man whom he'd never even met before today looked like someone he was certain he _did_ know? It didn't make any sense.

"Come, boy." The man waved Jace over. His voice sounded deep and husky, though not nearly as rough or stern as he'd expected it be.

The moment Jace reached him, the man proffered his bid—three bulging sacks of coins, to be exact—to Malachi, who accepted it with poorly concealed excitement. When the latter was satisfied with his payment, the man then took Jace by his forearm and led him away from the market.

* * *

As Jace trailed after his master, he searched his memories for signs of recollection about the man. The familiarity wasn't lost on him, but the question remained: _WHO IS HE?_

"My name is Michael Wayland. You may address me as Master or Sir," the man spoke, as though he had heard Jace's silent question.

 _Wayland…Michael Wayland? Why does that name ring a bell?_ Jace pondered, a crease appearing in between his eyebrows. He fought hard to remember the important detail that he was certain was buried somewhere within the deep recesses of his mind, but it remained elusive. _Think, Jace! Think!_

"I am—or _was_ , rather—your father's General, before I resigned from office a couple of years back and moved to Alicante to take part in some other…entertaining activities, shall we say… Activities that your father and your grandfather did not particularly _condone_ ," he continued while Jace listened on intently.

Michael paused as he regarded Jace with a meaningful smirk. "Have you ever heard of gladiators, son?"

"Gladiators?" Jace echoed questioningly. He shook his head slightly, giving Michael the indication to continue explaining.

"Gladiators," Michael repeated, "Men who take part in armed combat against other men or wild animals in arenas to entertain large crowds of people. They're warriors, who are occasionally forced to fight to the death, though usually the crowds have the final say on whether a gladiator lives or dies, depending on the value of the match," the man explained, his hands clasped together behind his back as he walked. "These gladiators are usually slaves. Though in certain instances, once they've proven their worth in the arena, they are freed."

Jace sucked in a sharp breath, a knowing look filled with a deep sense of foreboding etched onto his face, though he dared not speak up. He didn't like where this one-sided conversation was leading to at all.

"Surely your father has trained you a little? Self-defense and all that?" Michael inquired.

Jace merely nodded, his feet slowly growing heavier with each step. He eyed the plain-field meadow ahead of them, where a gray horse was apparently waiting for them, its reins tied securely around the trunk of a lone oak tree.

"Well, Jace, I may as well be forward with you." Michael turned to him. "I understand you are still a young boy, but I see a lot of potential _—fight_ —in you. You will make a fine gladiator one day, but until then I will train you. Make you stronger, faster. Then maybe one day, you'll be good enough to earn your freedom."

Jace smiled back stiffly before schooling his features into a placid expression. Internally, he felt like he was about to combust. How much bad news did he have to take in in less than twenty-four hours? As if it weren't bad enough that he'd been sold as a slave…now he's being roped into some gladiator rubbish that he didn't even want to understand. He swallowed against the lump threatening to form in his throat. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest—almost as violently and painfully as it had the night before. He hated being a pessimist, but he was fairly certain that at the rate his heart was acting, he would die sooner than he would become a teenager.

Upon reaching the gray mare, Michael lifted Jace up easily, allowing him to settle himself first before climbing up to sit behind him. After adjusting the reins, he kicked at the horse's side with his boot, then led it into a steady gallop away from Idris.

"We'll start anew, at Kirekwall—"

"Kirekwall? Where is that?" Jace asked in a panicky voice. He had known, mentally prepared himself even, to leave Idris. But he hadn't been prepared to move to a country he'd never even heard of. It terrified him. "I thought you lived in Alicante…"

"I believe in finding new beginnings in new places. From what I've heard, Kirekwall is relatively new to the gladiator games. It would be a good place for you to start—from the bottom," Michael said, a disguised emotion in his voice led Jace to believe that there were more to his reasons than he was willing to let on.

"But I—"

"I have _faith_ ," Michael interrupted, "that you'll settle in just fine, Jace. Don't worry about it." His chest vibrated with silent laughter against Jace's back.

Jace felt sorely tempted to twist around and punch Michael in the face for telling him to not worry about it, but he didn't. Instead, he dug his nails into the front of the saddle and grit his teeth in aggravation. It was all he could afford to do. Save for the clothes on his back, his old life was gone. He had no one but his master, a man whom his father apparently used to know. He didn't trust Michael—in fact, after how everything had panned out, he didn't think he could trust anyone other than _himself_ —but this was all he had now. He had to allow life to run its course.

Amidst all the chaos running through his head, a sudden calming thought hit him: _I will train hard. I will fight hard, and I will earn my place in the arena. And once I'm free, I'll come back to Idris and drag Valentine by his head and kill him in front of his family and the thousands of people watching. And finally, I will reclaim my birthright in Idris._

And with that in mind, Jace allowed a genuine smile to spread across his face.

* * *

 **A/N: Alrighty, now that we've set the scene...be prepared for gladiator Jace's debut next chapter! And if you're a returning reader, then you'll know that's where our favorite redhead comes into the picture too.**

 **Please remember to review! And while we're here, I'd like to give a shoutout to Jling and Laurinis who have been so supportive over PMs these past couple of trying days. You guys are amazing!**

 **Also, to elerian . shenar, I received your PM from my old account xxmadworldreveriexx, so this is me giving you a heads-up that all is cool with the plagiarism situation. Thanks for reaching out to me! :)**


	3. Chapter 2: A Gladiator's Homecoming

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2: A GLADIATOR'S HOMECOMING**

 ** _8 Years Later…_**

 **September 3, 508 _(part I)_**

Jace ambled along after his fellow gladiator comrades steadily, the manacles holding his hands together no longer a hefty weight on him. Michael's guards led the way on horses, one in front, two flanking each side, and two more minding the rear. The eight gladiators were aligned in pairs, their hands cuffed as usual, though they weren't chained to one another. Michael himself was nowhere to be seen, often traveling at his own unhurried pace, trusting his guards to chaperone his gladiators to each of their expected destinations.

Overhead, the scorching sun was bearing down on Jace heavily, making sweat drip from his forehead down to his chin and soaking his tunic with perspiration. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he ran the tip of his tongue over his chapped bottom lip and let out a sigh. His throat felt parched, and his muscles were fatigued from the long distance he had been walking, yet he trudged on, his pace steady even though his heart and mind were racing.

Normally, he would have at least complained or even whined about how exhausted he was, but not today. Everything he had worked so hard to accomplish was so that he could live to experience this very day—the day that he would be returning to his homeland, to Idris. _Finally._

When Michael first broke the news to him—two weeks ago, in Carith, to be exact—he remembered being assaulted by a wave of emotions, the first being dumbfounded shock. Of course, he knew that Idris was an eventuality, but for it to happen _this_ soon, had come as a complete surprise to him.

 _"So, I've been looking through your competition schedule, and I've come to an ingenious conclusion," Michael said whilst twiddling with a pocket knife._

 _"Oh, 'ingenious', are we?" Jace smirked. "Do tell, oh smart Master, what you've so ingeniously concluded."_

 _Michael sighed then turned to Jace with a shrug. "I think it's about time we go back to Idris. I've already written to the official games community there to enrol you and your…colleagues…as participants for the upcoming games in the Arena Dumont. They've agreed to have us. Well," he paused thoughtfully, oblivious to the dangerously rapid rhythm Jace's heart was thumping. "They are actually thrilled to have_ you _, if I do say so myself."_

 _"What did you just say?" Jace gaped at Michael, his golden eyes wide with astonishment. He was pretty sure he had heard his master right the first time, but he liked to be doubly sure—just to be on the safe side._

 _Michael rolled his eyes. "I said—You'll be competing in the gladiator games in Dumont. I think you're ready to handle the pressure of being in the big leagues, what with your reputation and all. I told you it was a smart move to have you work your way up from the bottom. Everyone in Idris has heard stories of you, Shadowhunter. You've turned into a legend of some sort," he said, the barely-covered smirk on his face betraying his amusement._

 _"But…" Jace shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "You're not joking, are you? Idris? I… Idris?"_

 _"No, I'm dead serious." Michael smiled at him. "You're going home, Jace."_

 _It took a long time before the weight of Michael's announcement sank in, but when it finally did, Jace had been over the moon happy. He was going home._

Home.

The word itself was enough to make Jace smile. Not only would he be competing at the Arena Dumont—the largest and most extraordinary arena built for the gladiator games, and battle amongst the greatest of gladiators—but he was also going home.

Eight years ago, all of this would have seemed like an elusive dream. But now that that it was finally within his reach, Jace couldn't help the deep feeling of satisfaction that coursed through him at the mere thought of it. With each step he took, he became closer and closer to Valentine, the man he had sworn to kill—the man who now shamelessly sat on his father's throne and overlooked the gladiator games.

Since the day that Jace was taken into the market and Michael bought him from the slavery trade, his life had been wrought with nothing but change. Despite the bruises, scars and blood he shed since he began his gladiator training, he had never once looked back on his journey with regret. In fact, he was deeply grateful for it.

No longer was he the scrawny, little boy who was dependent on his parents, or had servants waiting on his hand and foot. With time, Jace had hardened and grown into a handsome young man with a remarkable physique. Now standing at a height of six feet, he had a lean though fairly-built figure, with well-toned muscles that not only showed off his tremendous strength, but his journey into a man. He wasn't the largest of gladiators in terms of size, but he certainly had an impressive repute.

Notwithstanding his shaky start, Jace always pushed himself beyond his limits when he trained, working on his weaknesses and fine-tuning the skills he had already mastered. Of course, when Michael entered him in his first ever real combat, Jace had been scared as hell. Who wouldn't be when life and death were hung in the balance?

But as he stared down the face of his opponent, he remembered the one important lesson from training—and that was to never show his opponent his fears or vulnerabilities. So as the latter made his first advance on him, Jace allowed himself to get lost in the high of the battle, guiding his movements to be swift, graceful and precise as he countered each of his opponent's blows, before finding the opening he needed to strike him down.

Michael might have never admitted it aloud before, but Jace knew that he was secretly proud of how he had turned out. In spite of being one of the youngest gladiators to ever compete in a professional arena, having started at the age of seventeen, Jace had defeated plenty of formidable opponents from far and wide, even those with a decade-long of experience on the battlefield and those twice his size. Now two years later, he was a crowd favorite, and his gladiator name 'Shadowhunter' was well-known across countries that celebrated the gladiator games. No one knew who he really was except for Michael, but the one simple fact remained: he had done what would have normally be deemed the impossible—he overcame the odds. And that was enough to make a statement that he was someone worth watching; someone worth paying attention to.

Of course, like most things he had to adapt to in his slave life, it hadn't been easy at first, especially with having to come to terms that he had to kill for sport—for a _living_. The idea used to repulse him immensely. What justified his right to take away another man's life, to play the role that only God was worthy of?

But in time, Jace had learned to put it all aside and trust in his own abilities; he didn't have a choice. His weapons eventually became extensions of himself, and fighting his second nature. He lived for the adrenaline and the adulation people showered him with each time he brought down his adversary, because in those few moments, he could forget.

He could forget about Valentine and his dead parents; he could forget that he was an orphaned slave and pretend that he was worth something more.

"Lovely weather we're having today, huh Shadow?" A sarcastic voice grumbled from Jace's right. Even without glancing over at the speaker, Jace knew who it was—Elphas. The man was twelve years older than him and an ex-soldier; Michael had bought him over a year ago at a slave auction in Wintervale.

Jace had never quite liked Elphas. Since day one, the latter had always believed himself to be a better fighter due to his 'seniority'. Luckily for Elphas, he was rarely ever entered in a solo combat, and the two victories he had earned were instances that Jace would refer to as a 'fluke'.

From the corner of his eye, Jace caught Elphas assessing him in a manner which could only be described as intrusive, and maybe even a little envious. He inhaled a deep breath and resisted the urge to send an uppercut his way.

"Are you really that bored that you've resorted to engaging me in a scintillating conversation about the weather?" He returned with just as much sarcasm in his tone.

Elphas narrowed his eyes at him and sneered. "Always a hard one to please, aren't you? Listen _kid_ —If I were you, I'd learn to show a little bit more respect to my elders…especially one who has more experience in fighting than you."

Jace laughed at that. "Funny. I've yet to see that. Maybe once you've won an actual fight—and I mean one that does not involve a hell lot of cheap shots—then we'll have another discussion about this issue of _respect_. And just so you know, respect isn't just handed out—you have to give it in order to earn it." Elphas turned red, whether with embarrassment or rage, Jace wasn't sure.

"Why you little bas—"

"SHADOWHUNTER!" Michael's voice rang out, interrupting Elphas mid-insult. The gladiator glanced over his shoulder before glaring at Jace again.

"Saved by the good master." Elphas turned his head to the side and spat. If possible, his face looked even redder. Jace would have attributed it to the heat, but even he wasn't deluded into thinking that Elphas didn't hold a grudge against him for the extra attention Michael showered him with.

Though it was never officially spoken, it was apparent to even the rest of Michael's gladiators that their master treated Jace differently, almost as if he were indispensable— _special_ to him. Some turned a blind eye to it, others such as Elphas didn't bother to mask their resentment towards such favoritism. Jace didn't care either way; he didn't ask Michael to treat him the way he did.

"We'll see how long you last in Dumont," Elphas growled before stalking off.

Jace only shook his head. If they weren't on their way to Idris, he would have probably put his two cents' worth just for the chance of hitting Elphas in the face. But with the prospect of home being so close within his reach, he didn't feel the need to start a fight that would only result in him being on the receiving end of Michael's punishment. Granted, his master tended to spare him with leniency, but he didn't want to take a chance. He was in a much too good mood anyway to let a green-eyed sleazeball like Elphas ruin it.

Seizing the opportunity of Michael's interference to allow himself a brief moment of respite, Jace swiveled around to face him as he approached him on his newly-acquired horse.

"Here," Michael said as he retrieved a bottle of water from his satchel and tossed it to Jace. He caught the bottle easily, before unscrewing the cap and taking generous gulps of the offering to replenish his drying throat.

"Thanks," Jace said as he returned the bottle to Michael. The older man gave him a curt nod before dismounting his horse, his cloak billowing behind him dramatically. Jace wondered why his master even bothered with the cloak in such a weather. It couldn't possibly be comfortable having an extra layer on his body in this heat.

"So," Michael said, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. "Did I interrupt anything important between you and Elphas?"

Jace scoffed. "Not particularly. He's not going to confess his undying love for me anytime soon, so you can probably rule that one out."

"Whatever the matter is between the two of you, keep it clean. Or at least, save it for the arena," Michael said.

"Oh, I'll keep it clean as long as he does," Jace countered half-heartedly, more for the sake of having the last say than to actually defend himself.

Michael shook his head and they slipped into a comfortable silence, purposely straying behind the others at a leisurely pace. The whole entire time however, Jace's mind was humming, a stream of thoughts and conversations that hurtled alongside one another at breakneck speed, making it impossible to disconnect them. He sighed. Figures that his good mood would only be ruined by _himself_.

"Now, Jace," Michael began, immediately pulling his attention back to him. He noted belatedly that he was calling him by his actual name instead of 'Shadowhunter'—as he usually did when it was just the two of them. "I know you've been looking forward to coming home since we left here eight years ago," he said, as if he were planning his words carefully. "But once we reach Idris, I expect you to have plenty of rest after your training and focus on the task at hand. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow and I want you to make a good impression on the crowd here. They tend to be…harder to please. Win them over, then maybe you can finally earn your freedom."

"My freedom?" Jace asked, not believing his ears.

Michael nodded, looking thoughtful. "You remember me telling you that once a gladiator has proven his worth in the arena, he may be freed—"

"Yes, of course I do," Jace cut in. He ran his hand through his hair, looking puzzled. "But I thought that only applied gladiators who belong to the _arena_ , gladiators who have served for many years—decades even. I'm only _nineteen_."

"That you are. But it doesn't mean that I haven't considered freeing you." Michael shrugged. "You've brought me a lot of pride, and not to mention, riches in the time you've competed professionally. I'm not promising, but I want you to know that I'm giving it a serious thought. All I ask is that you do well in the games—as if it were your last." Michael's eyes glossed over with an undeciphered emotion, one that vanished as quickly as it came.

Jace could only manage a nod as he rubbed the side of Michael's horse. Even though Michael hadn't confirmed anything, the weight of his consideration, on top of his homecoming, was still a lot to take in. He couldn't allow it to distract him though. The challenge that awaited him was monumental in itself.

He only had to worry about the issue Michael had raised _after_ his performance in the arena. Right now, the most important thing was to keep his head up—and preferably, _on_ his shoulders by the end of his first match.

As the Idrisian gates came into sight, Jace found himself holding his breath and his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The nervousness and excitement he felt was undeniable. He had waited, _craved_ , for this opportunity for a long time. _How much has Idris changed since I left?_ He wondered as he ran his fingers through his damp curls.

Michael gave him a reassuring wink before walking ahead of him, giving him time and space to collect himself. Jace exhaled loudly before taking in a deeper breath to steel his nerves, then with a practiced mask of fearlessness, he strode forward confidently after Michael.

* * *

As it turned out, Idris hadn't changed much since Jace's departure. With the exception of the Arena Dumont being added to facilitate the gladiator games, everything else looked the same as before, the market teeming with its usual activity that no one even bothered to spare him a second glance as he passed.

Up ahead, the grand towers of the Idrisian palace loomed, its spires piercing the swirling white clouds like needles: shimmering, crystal and glasslike. They rose from an ivory-white pillared edifice erected on the crest of a hill, and deviated into each cardinal direction point: north, south, east and west. Jace squinted as one of the sun's rays reflected off the glass towers, fleetingly blinding him.

A sharp pang shot through him. Of all the sights in Idris that he had missed, it was this— _his home_. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he was a young boy again, returning home after traveling on the road for a week with his family friends, the Lightwoods. He would abandon his horse in the market square and settle for a sprint, never tiring until he reached the palace where his mother awaited him.

 _I wish you were waiting for me, Mom,_ Jace thought with a twinge of longing. _I would give anything to have you back._

"Idris is usually crowded this time of the year…but it's even more so when the big gladiator events come around," Michael scratched his chin pensively as they strode towards a stall selling apples. Jace shook away the vulnerable thoughts lingering in his mind, and instead tried to devote his attention to his master.

"See, in Idris, they organize a total of two major events in a year," Michael continued, "each one a good six months away from the other to give these gladiators the time to train and recuperate from whatever injuries they have sustained from the previous games." He paused momentarily, examining a stock of cherry-red apples before picking up two of them. Digging his left hand into the pockets of his trousers, he retrieved two silver shillings before paying them to the stall vendor, a teenage girl with platinum-blond hair and steel-blue eyes.

The girl cast Jace a flirtatious gaze, jutting out her bottom lip slightly, then bent forward to show off her cleavage. Jace recognized the obvious attempt at seduction, but only averted his gaze to examine his nails. His participation in the gladiator games aside, his mind was set on one thing only—killing Valentine—and he couldn't afford to be distracted by anyone.

"You did notice that the girl was trying to get your attention, right?" Michael teased as he handed Jace an apple. He snatched up the offer without hesitation then took a large bite into it, but not before rolling his eyes at his master's remark.

"Of course I did," he said indifferently. "Not that I've ever cared." Taking another bite into his apple, Jace involuntarily closed his eyes, savoring the sweet and crunchy taste of the fruit. It had been a long time since he last had something as remotely decent. Being a gladiator, his diet mainly consisted of barley, oatmeal, boiled beans, ash, and dried fruit. Most of the time, those meals tasted pretty bland, to say the least.

"Tomorrow is the trial games," Michael said evenly. "Something like a preliminary round leading up to the year-end gladiator event. If you impress Valentine, and more importantly, the crowd tomorrow, you'll get through into the upcoming gladiator event."

"Sounds great," Jace said absentmindedly, his aureate eyes already beginning to glaze over with dark thoughts. He didn't know how he would react if he were to see _Valentine_ again. It had been far too long since he laid eyes on the enemy; his nightmares of the dark-eyed demon excluded. What if his thirst for revenge were to overwhelm his ability to rationalize, and he lost control?

Jace was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the jingling of metal. He glanced over at Michael, who had plucked out a set of keys from his belt and was in the middle of removing the manacles from his hands. Jace frowned at his master's actions, especially when the latter took off his heavy, dark cloak and draped it around him instead, pulling the hood over his blond locks.

"What are you doing?" He asked, not bothering to hide the confusion from his voice. Michael only looked unfazed. Jace did a double-take, realizing that they were no longer in the center of the marketplace, but an alleyway that easily hid them from the rest of the market-goers.

"We have about a good hour to spare before we are due at Dumont," the older man explained, his tone softer than usual. "Why don't you have a walk around, see how things are in Idris? Just don't wander off too far," He patted his back in a fatherly gesture. "Meet me back at the market square in the next half an hour…or you'll have hell to pay," he warned in a joking tone. "Go on."

Jace didn't move, only gaped at his master in disbelief. He couldn't tell if Michael was being serious, or if he was simply toying with him—although if he _were_ , Jace couldn't tell what his motivation was. Michael raised his eyebrow at him questioningly. "Is this…a test?" Jace asked in a guarded tone.

"Not a test." Michael waved him off. "Go."

Jace didn't budge a step. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"And if I run off?"

"You won't."

"That's an awful lot of trust you have there," Jace pointed out, still cynical about Michael's intentions. "Technically I _could_ run."

Michael heaved a sigh of exasperation. "But you won't. Why would you? You're finally home! _Where_ would you possibly run off to?"

Jace shrugged. "I could run amok and invade the palace."

"And as I've said before, _you won't_. Not without weapons or a proper plan," Michael brushed him off. "It's your choice, Jace. You only have this one opportunity with me. Do you want to explore the market on your own or head straight to Dumont?"

Jace held his master's gaze, trying to decipher some hidden emotion, agenda, _anything_. But when he saw that Michael was indeed serious about his offer, he kept his mouth shut. This was as rare an opportunity as any—a chance of temporary freedom and normalcy, before his gladiator training in Dumont was to start. How could he ever turn down such an offer?

"I want to go," he said in a small voice. "To see the market, I mean."

Michael smiled at him. "Then go, son." _Son._ Jace swallowed. In the context of his relationship with Michael, the word was inconsequential. Michael had called him that several times, but never with such sentiment. He almost sounded like his father then.

"Okay." Jace gave his master an appreciative nod and secured the cloak tighter around himself. It wasn't exactly the best sort of disguise, but it would do. Without another word, he strode off, with no absolute destination in mind.

* * *

In his autopilot mode, Jace found himself standing in front of the bakery store his mother used to love, _Taki's._ It was an old, worn-down shop, belonging to the seventh generation of the Bellefleurs, a well-known baker family in town. On the surface, the store gave absolutely nothing away, except for the signboard with a poorly drawn picture of bread. The interior was a different story altogether, from what he recalled.

As Jace took in a huge whiff of the once-familiar aroma of scrumptious bread, mixed with cinnamon, honey and spices, his heart twinged. He felt helpless as memories invaded him, though this time it was of happier moments; of the times when his mother would let him pick out whatever he desired from _Taki's_ : golden saffron sourdough bread, profiteroles, pies, bread rolls, and his all-time favorite childhood treat, honey cakes.

His expression turned sad as he realized he could never afford any of those treats ever again, not unless he was a free man. And only God knew when he would be free— _Certainly not today_ , he thought, his jaw clenching.

Just as Jace was about to turn away, he felt a sharp tug on his left forearm. On impulse, he spun around swiftly and was about to retaliate when he realized that his 'attacker' was only a young boy by the age of nine. He had dark hair and gray eyes, and wore a pair of crooked, round-rimmed spectacles.

The little boy flashed Jace with a wide grin, his entire demeanor radiating with awe and excitement. Even the irises of his gray eyes seemed to twinkle with an unrestrained spark of joy, the sort of giddy happiness that only children seemed capable of possessing. It was such an odd and rare sight. As far as Jace was concerned, no one had ever been brave enough to approach him—except for the occasional horde of girls who showed interest in him, or rather, _his looks_ —much less look at him like that.

How could the boy have been so naïve and careless as to approach _him_ , a gladiator? What if he had been a mindless brute and killed him?

Then he realized—he was wearing a cloak! The boy couldn't have possibly known that he was a gladiator, unless he had accidentally revealed the clothes he wore underneath OR it was (highly unlikely but still) possible that boy knew of his _real_ identity. Jace self-consciously reached for the hood, thinking that it had slipped, only to find it still secured over his head.

"Excuse me, Mister. I was wondering if you were a gladiator," the boy asked in a genuinely curious and inquisitive tone.

Jace blinked and looked around, overcome by a sudden spell of paranoia. There weren't as many passers-by on that particular street, and the few that were there barely paid them any attention; their gazes didn't linger for more than a second, and those who did look, looked away just as quickly.

Gently, he took the young boy by his arm and led him to an even more secluded area. The coast was clear, but he thought it was best, safest if they continued their conversation away from any accidental eavesdroppers. He couldn't risk anyone finding out who or what he was.

"How did you know?" He asked, his tone hushed.

"I saw some of the new gladiators walking through the market with the guards just now…you were dressed just like one of them"—Jace opened his mouth to interject, but the boy cut him off with his animated jabbering—"I saw you! You were with this other man…he gave you his cloak. Oh, and your hands were in cuffs too, just like the rest of them, but he took them off for you."

"You were watching me?" Jace looked at the boy, bemused. "I don't suppose you were following me as well?" He raised a fair eyebrow, and to his quiet bewilderment and amusement, the young boy suddenly looked bashful.

"I was curious," he said, blushing. "I've never seen a gladiator up-close before."

"Ever heard of the term 'curiosity killed the cat'?" Jace asked, not unkindly. "Gladiators don't typically roam around without a guard and are almost always handcuffed for a _reason_. Don't make it a habit to walk up to a complete stranger, much less one you suspect to be a gladiator, okay? If it had been anyone else other than me, you could have been in big trouble, do you understand?" He gave the young boy a stern and oddly, protective look. The latter nodded his head sheepishly.

"But why aren't you in chains?" The boy asked, still agog with curiosity as ever. "Why did the man let you go? Is he your master? Did he free you?"

Jace sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes. Yes, he's my master, but no, he didn't free me. We just happen to have a sort of weird relationship, I guess. He trusts me more than the rest of his gladiators, but mostly because he took me in when I was still a boy. In an odd way, he's like my guardian…"

He didn't know why he was even bothering to tell the young boy about his relationship with Michael. It was personal, and Jace didn't talk about things that were personal to him. But the boy was young and harmless, and the first, only _normal_ person to talk to him in eight years—'normal' in his case meaning that he wasn't Michael or his gladiator comrades or any other figure of authority. He was just…a boy.

"Whoa! So does this mean that you've been a gladiator since you were a kid?" Jace shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, which only made the young boy squeal in awe. He couldn't help but chuckle as the latter began to bob on his feet, causing his glasses to bounce along with the motion.

"Slow down there, young one. You're going to hurt yourself," Jace shook his head with a laugh.

"Tell me your name! I know _all_ of the gladiators' names!"

Jace knelt down so that he was eye-level with the boy. "Shadowhunter."

At that, the young boy's movements came to a complete standstill, and he gawked at Jace, eyes nearly bulging out of his head. "Sha-Shadow-hunter? _The_ Shadowhunter?" He stammered, and for a moment, Jace was struck with worry. What sort of stories had the boy heard of him? Was he afraid of him? Did he think he was _the_ ruthless killer?

"Shadowhunter," the boy whispered in a disbelieving tone. "I got to meet Shadowhunter."

"Are you all right?" Jace asked in an unsure tone. "I can leave—"

The boy looked up at him, and if possible, the amount of awe on his face grew by a hundredfold. "Do you know who you are? You're a legend!" His voice dropped to a whisper then, as if he were sharing his deepest secret. "They say that you're the youngest and _bestest_ gladiators ever."

Jace shrugged a little awkwardly, not sure how to take the compliment. With any other person, he would have probably played along their flattering remarks with snarky arrogance. Not with this boy though. For some reason, he wanted the boy to like him. "I'm okay," he said, sounding uncertain. "Average."

"AVERAGE?" The boy snorted, as if offended by Jace's modest reply. "You're _only_ like the BEST!"

Jace couldn't help but chuckle. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it. You're the gladiator expert here, after all," he said, causing the boy to beam widely. "What's your name, buddy?"

The latter opened his mouth, about to answer when all of a sudden—

"MAX!" A gentle but firm female voice, mixed with frustration and relief, cut in.

Jace and the boy, Max, turned their heads towards the direction of the voice in a simultaneous motion. His golden eyes widened when he saw a petite young woman stomping towards them angrily. She had fiery auburn tresses that curled down to her tiny waist, and astonishingly mesmerizing emerald green eyes that seemed to sparkle, even from a distance. Jace's heartbeat sped up, so fast and hard he could feel his heart pounding against his sternum.

There was no way to describe the immediate pull he felt towards the girl, how even despite the fact that she was a stranger, he already felt _something_ for her. Attraction, want, lust…everything that was foreign and reprehensible to him. The fact of the matter was, Jace didn't _like_ girls. And not because he was gay or confused about his feelings toward the opposite sex; he just didn't. It was stupid, even he knew that it was, but he was a helpless victim to his own mind. Every time he looked at a girl, he couldn't help but remember his mother, about how she had been shamed and killed, and how he had done nothing to prevent it. If he couldn't even protect his own mother, how could he possibly burden himself with the responsibility of taking care of another girl?

Even if he weren't emotionally invested in any of them, or if his lifestyle hadn't been prohibitive, the mere idea of "using" women to fulfil whatever manly urges he had disgusted him. He would never stoop to that level; he would never disrespect a woman by taking what wasn't his, even if they were consenting adults. He would never be anything that reminded him of _Valentine_.

Jace didn't realize that he was still kneeling on the ground, completely dumbfounded, until the girl was standing directly in front of them. Instantly, he got onto his feet, brushing the knees of his trousers hastily before facing the girl, who had her hands on her hips and was glaring at a sulky Max.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed that she had pale, ivory skin, and a light dusting of freckles decorated her button nose. She donned a cream-colored chiffon dress with an empire waist and lace bodice, and over it, she wore a velvet cloak the color of blood.

"Max, what did I say about telling me or Izzy before sneaking off somewhere? You could have easily gotten lost or worse, hurt!" The girl chided Max while Jace continued appraising her with total abandon.

The corner of Max's lips twitched into a frown, and his gray eyes shone with remorse. "I'm sorry, Clary. I promise I won't do it again. Please don't get mad at me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered repeatedly before tackling Clary's waist with a hug.

Her glare softened as she bent down to reciprocate the younger boy's embrace. "It's fine, Max. Just don't do it again," she replied in a much gentler tone.

Jace continued to stare at her, not realizing what he was doing, when she suddenly looked up at him and their gazes locked. Her emerald green eyes widened as if she was surprised to see him, and she let out a gasp—similar to the one that had lodged itself in his throat. _I don't like girls,_ he told himself.

"Um," Clary frowned at him.

Jace raised his brow, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

"You're not from around here," she blurted. Almost instantly, her eyes widened in shock, as if she hadn't meant to say what she did. "I mean…" she stuttered, her cheeks red with mortification. "…what I meant to say was… Hi?"

The sound of her voice directed to him—soft, tinkling and unsure—fueled the burn of desire in his chest, and Jace swallowed, the movement barely noticeable to anyone but him. "Hello, there," he said, bowing slightly in a formal show of respect.

"Hello…again," Clary returned, a shy smile taking residence on her flushed face. Turning back to Max, she hastily said, "Why don't you go find your sister? I'm sure she's been wondering about where you are. Go on."

Max nodded, turning to leave in the direction where Clary had come from, but not before shooting Jace an impish grin. "I'll look out for you in the arena tomorrow!" He yelled over his shoulder, causing Jace cringe on the inside.

Once the young boy had run past his line of sight, Jace's throat constricted with nervousness as the almighty realization sunk in. He was _alone_ with a _girl_. The warning bells in his head told him to turn away; to say his quick goodbyes and leave before it was too late, but his body betrayed him by refusing to move. So he settled for the next best option in his book: nonchalance.

Quirking one side of his mouth into a devilish smirk, he threw a wink in Clary's direction, instantly making her face turn fifty shades of red that would have easily put her own fiery red hair to shame. Uncharacteristically, he found her reaction to be endearing and…adorable. He didn't know anything about her except for her first name (thanks to Max), but he knew that he already liked her blush. She had a pretty blush.

The girl cleared her throat before holding her hand out in greeting. "Princess Clarissa Adele Morgenstern, though I prefer to be called Clary," she introduced herself in a clear voice.

Instantly, Jace's mouth fell open a little and the incessant ringing in his head stopped. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't _that_. Just when he'd developed an interest in a girl… Life must really enjoy making him a victim of such cruel surprises, he thought bitterly. An overwhelming urge to slap himself arose, but Jace remained frozen, still staring at her— _Her._ _Clary. Princess. Valentine's daughter. The enemy's daughter._

Anger filled his veins, though Jace wasn't sure who exactly was he mad at. Was it Clary or him? Was he mad at her for being a Morgenstern, or was he mad at _himself_ —for not knowing who she was sooner, for allowing himself to be as careless as he was in those few short seconds to "like" her? The latter in itself was an intolerable weakness—How could he be so reckless and shallow as to develop a liking for someone he knew nothing about?

Realizing that Jace had no intentions to reciprocate her handshake, Clary dropped her hand with a frown. "Well, aren't you going to introduce yourself?" She demanded, her voice raised an octave higher in annoyance.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Princess," Jace obliged. "And I apologize; I would shake your hand but I don't think that I'm all too worthy since I'm a gladiator," he said, his voice cool and his face wiped clean of any expression. Logically, he knew that he shouldn't have admitted the truth about "what" he was, but if he was going to introduce himself… Clary would definitely be suspicious of him anyway. It was better to be half-honest than to evade the subject or to tell a complete lie.

Her eyes widened at his admission. "Gladiator?" She repeated, glancing down at his free wrists. "What are you doing in the market without a guard?" She asked, her green eyes turning wary.

"My master gave me his permission to take a walk in the market…" Jace said with equal amount of caution. "Is there something wrong?"

"You know that's against the rules," Clary narrowed her eyes at him. "No gladiator is supposed to roam around in public as they please. For all I know, you're probably a fugitive."

"So you're going to report me?" Jace asked, quirking an eyebrow at her testily. Deep down, he recognized the feeling of being threatened. He couldn't risk his identity getting revealed; Valentine would no sooner have his head on a chopping board. And if _his daughter_ were to make a scene, he would no doubt get into trouble. Big trouble. "I am no threat, I assure you. My master wouldn't have let me out of his sight otherwise. As for your little theory about me being a fugitive…you do realize that if I were one, the arena would have sent out guards to look for me, right?"

She hesitated. "That's not the point."

"What about you then?" Jace retorted, turning the tables on her. "Isn't there some sort of _rule_ dictating that princesses shouldn't go anywhere in public without an escort?" As he said the words, Jace felt a sudden wave of protectiveness wash over him. "Why are you out in the market without anyone to protect you?" He asked in a softer tone, his brows furrowed. "Anything could happen to you… Won't your parents be worried?"

He saw the effect his words had on her, the flash of an undecipherable emotion in her eyes that went almost as quickly as it came.

Clary shook her head dismissively. "What's your name?"

"Shadowhunter."

"Your _real_ name," she insisted.

"I apologize, Milady, but I'm afraid I cannot tell you," Jace said, though a small, unexplained part of him felt inclined to tell her the truth. A larger part of him, on the other hand, was beginning to grow irritated with her prying attitude. Why was she acting all sanctimonious, even if she was the princess? "We gladiators are expected to keep our identities confidential."

"I don't remember there ever being such a rule!" Clary scoffed, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at him.

Jace smiled down at her, subconsciously finding her small stature to be endearing. "Hmm, you're right. There might not be such a rule, but unfortunately, I don't feel comfortable disclosing such private details with you, my fair Lady. Therefore, unless you have earned my trust, Shadowhunter would have to do for now," he countered, causing Clary to narrow her eyes at him even further. Inwardly, he cringed at the veracity behind his statement, despite how offhanded he made it sound. The truth was, he couldn't trust her, much less tell her his name. She was the enemy's daughter.

Unexpectedly, Clary rolled her eyes at him before pivoting on her heel and storming off into _Taki's._ She didn't even look back to see if he was following her. Jace was surprised by how much he actually _enjoyed_ her reaction. It was rare that any girl walked away from him— _he_ usually walked away from them. It was almost as if she were challenging him to go after her. _God, what have I dragged myself into?_

Jace stared at the door where she had disappeared into, a restless debate waged in his mind. He knew he should take the 'out' and leave before he did anything stupid, but somehow, he couldn't find it in him to turn away. It was crazy—absolutely crazy. He had only known Clary for five minutes but he was, already helplessly, drawn to her. _Valentine's daughter._

Best if he did follow her, he decided, taking a step forward, and then another. Perhaps he could get some useful information about Valentine…it wouldn't be a meaningless waste of time, he reasoned as he stepped into the bakery.

He spotted Clary almost immediately; she was hovering by the shelves on the far-end corner of the store, a wooden tray in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. She looked over her shoulder at him and turned away quickly. Jace supposed that she was trying to be discreet, but he saw it—the slight quirk of her lips when she realized that he had followed her.

Jace cleared his throat once he was standing next to Clary. "So, tell me, how did the gladiator games came to be in Idris?" He asked in a casual tone. "I heard that the king before your father, Stephen Herondale, and his father before him, did not condone the act of people fighting in arenas for the sake of entertainment."

Clary didn't even turn to look at him, her gaze fixated on the various assortment of mouthwatering breads. After a long pause, she settled on a few loaves of white-rye sourdough bread that smelt faintly of rosemary, before heading to the counter to pay for her purchase.

The cashier curtsied as Clary approached her, addressing her as 'Your Highness' before promptly packing the loaves of bread into a brown paper bag. Jace didn't miss the way the cashier's eyes darted over to him, judgment clear in her eyes—what business did a stranger like him have in a bakery shop?

"Thank you, Your Highness," the woman thanked Clary profusely after she presented her with three gold shillings as a generous tip. Clary merely nodded and left the store, with Jace still following her at a respectful distance.

As soon as they were outside, Clary reached into the brown paper bag and took out a loaf of the sourdough bread she'd bought from _Taki's_ earlier. Jace watched her curiously as she smiled to herself, before turning to him and offering him the bread. His hands remained still at his side and he stared at her, stunned.

"Take it," she said, noticing his hesitation.

Without removing his gaze from hers, Jace did, his right hand moving and his fingers wrapping themselves around the bread uncertainly. "Thanks," he said with an arched eyebrow, half-expecting the princess to snatch the bread back from him. He contemplated returning her the bread. After all, what if it was a trick? To make him feel indebted to her or…something?

"You're welcome," Clary simply replied before taking out her own bread and nibbling into it.

Jace stared at her—again. The day was full of surprises, it seemed. He didn't expect Valentine's daughter to be so kind, even if she did look like it. After all, why would anyone, especially a member of royalty, treat him to something as lavish as sourdough bread? He was a lowly slave—a renowned gladiator, yes, but a slave nonetheless. Admittedly, sourdough bread was a common enough food for peasants and slaves, but the ones from _Taki's_ —baked from the finest white bread and spices—were usually served for the elites.

He followed her patiently as she led them away from the busy crowd of market-goers, over to a bench by a water fountain, secluded from the rest of the market.

It was a rather peculiar fountain, Jace thought. Rising from the water was, presumably, an ancient warrior believed to be the first great gladiator who had lived centuries ago; he held a sword in one hand and a chalice in the other. 'The Mortal Instruments/Raziel', the plaque read.

"You should eat your bread while it's still warm," Clary prompted him when she noticed the look of hesitation on his face. "It's fine, Shadowhunter. I don't expect anything in return from you. I just thought it would be nice if you tried something from _Taki's_. They're known to bake the best bread in town," she added in a lighter tone.

Convinced that she wasn't trying to pull anything on him, Jace nodded his thanks again before finally digging into the bread. And Lord help him, it was the most heavenly food he'd eaten in years! The bread was soft and moist and tangy; he could practically feel his taste buds exploding with flavor!

Jace felt the taut muscles of his heart loosen significantly, and where distrust and suspicion once resided, he was only left with a feeling of gratitude and contentment. He didn't know why an act as small as the offering of food could affect him so much—could _touch_ his stone-cold heart so much—but it did.

"The gladiator games have been going on here for about six years now," Clary suddenly said, hesitation coloring her tone. Jace blinked and processed her words, realizing belatedly that she was indulging his earlier question with an answer. "When I first moved here from Alicante—I was only ten years old—they had just finished constructing the Arena Dumont," she said, pausing to wipe the crumbs away from her lips.

"You see, my father loves the gladiator games. He always has, even back when we lived in Alicante, he has always been a big supporter of the games." Clary took another bite of her bread as Jace listened on attentively, his own bread long-finished.

"I've never liked the games, though. As a matter of fact, I _hate_ it," she admitted quietly. "I don't know what my father and everyone else sees in it. People getting butchered just for the sake of entertainment—that's just sick. It makes me really sick sometimes. I mean, how can anyone possibly take pleasure in someone else's pain and demise?" Her voice wavered towards the end of her sentence, and her eyes even began to tear up a little.

Jace reckoned that if he had still been eating, he would have surely choked on his bread. Her words just hit too close to home: _"How could anyone possibly take pleasure in someone else's pain and demise?"_ Did she assume that just because he was a gladiator, he was one of those people?

"How do _you_ do it?" Clary suddenly asked as she turned to Jace, her green eyes wide with innocence.

He looked at her, baffled. A tirade of emotions swam in the pools of his golden orbs. So she _did_ think of him as one of those people, he thought, disappointed for reasons he couldn't even comprehend. Why did it matter what she thought of him? She didn't know him. She was just… _Valentine's daughter_.

Jace averted his gaze, rubbing his face with his hands. "I…" he stammered. "It's—It's just—It's all I've ever known since I was a young boy." He shut his eyes tightly, swallowing back the pain as he thought about the circumstances that led him to his current life. His mother's face flashed before his eyes, and he willed the image away, not wanting to relive the look that he'd already memorized of her face: anguished, broken and lifeless. It was _his fault_ that she was dead. He should have stopped her from going to the door. He should have stopped Valentine before he even got the chance to hurt her.

He should have been _brave_.

"I was brought into this life without a choice," Jace continued, hating how weak and vulnerable he sounded. It wasn't fair. "Sure, I used to feel disturbed by the idea of taking someone else's life into my own hands, but that's just the way it is; _Survival of the fittest. You either eat or you get eaten_. After a while, I just got used to it, I don't feel anything anymore when I fight, or when I kill. I'm just…I've grown numb to it, I guess," he finished with a deep crinkle in his forehead, his aureate eyes staring off into the far distance.

No one had ever asked him before what it was like to kill somebody else. And now that Jace thought of it, he felt cruel. He felt unbelievably cruel and inhumane. How could _he_ take another's life away without a second thought, and without feeling remorseful about it after? And worse, how was he any better than Valentine in that sense? He was a monster, a cold-hearted monster. Just like the man who had taken his parents away from him. He was a hypocrite.

 _Shadowhunter! Shadowhunter!_

"Shadowhunter!" Clary's persistent voice knocked Jace out of his morbid epiphany. He blinked his eyes several times before whipping his head round to meet Clary's gaze, the anguish palpable on his own face.

"Hey, are you okay?" Genuine worry laced her tone as she cupped his cheek comfortingly, almost like a reflex action.

Jace's breath hitched at the contact. He felt as if sparks of electricity were coursing through him from her single touch. And to make matters worse, he found himself welcoming it. _Her hands are so soft, like silk_ , he found himself unconsciously thinking. A smile ghosted his lips before he caught himself and abruptly turned away.

"I'm fine. Don't worry your pretty little redhead over it," he answered, his voice rough. He caught the look of hurt and rejection flashing across her face, but pushed himself to ignore it. He leaned forward in his seat and placed his hands on his lap, entwining his fingers loosely.

"Tell me about your father. How did he claim rule over Idris?" He interrogated her. His voice was cold and steady, a contrast to the nerves he hid—just barely—beneath his cool exterior. If Clary were to walk away from him for good this time, he wouldn't blame her. She didn't deserve his rude treatment. He closed his eyes, bracing himself to hear her receding footsteps. Instead, he heard the sound of her voice—quieter this time, but guarded, like his.

"My father has always been the rightful heir to the throne of Idris. My grandfather, the late King Marcus, was tricked by his adopted son, Stephen Herondale." At this, Jace's chest pulsated with profound hatred and vengeance that only a couple of minutes ago laid dormant. His hands clenched into tight fists, until his nails were digging into his skin.

Jace took it back—he wished that Clary _had_ walked away from him. His father…a liar? And what was all that rubbish she was spouting about his father being the king's adopted son? If so, wouldn't that make Valentine his adopted uncle? Just the thought of being related to that monster, blood or not, sickened Jace. He had half a mind to stop Clary right then and there and set the facts straight, but at the same time, he was dying to know the fabricated tale that Valentine told his daughter. So he bit his tongue, and inhaled a deep breath as she continued.

"According to my father, Stephen was always jealous of him growing up. He always competed for attention with my grandparents, wanting to be their favorite child, and because he was so desperate to get the throne, he came up with a clever plot to frame my father, and accused him of stealing the kingdom's funds to sponsor the gladiator games in Alicante," she said.

"But, _in actual fact_ , Stephen was the one who stole the money in an attempt to woo the woman my father was in love with, Celine Montclaire." Clary scoffed, as if disgusted with the mere idea of Jace's mother. "Well, it certainly worked, because after that, Celine left my father to be with Stephen. And in the end, my father was humiliated, disowned by his own biological family while Stephen was announced the successor to the throne."

Jace clenched his fists even tighter, enough for the skin on his palms to break and draw blood. _How dare she? How dare she insult and condemn my parents? How dare she accuse my father of being a scheming thief and insinuate that my mother was nothing but a money-eyed skank?_

"So after years of careful planning, my father rallied his allies in Alicante and launched an attack on Idris, killing Stephen and his wife for their betrayal and reclaiming his throne. Sure it was cruel, but I say it was poetic justice," Clary finished contemptuously.

Jace slammed his hands against the wooden bench with great force, shattering Clary's attention from the story she was recounting. He stood up brusquely, pacing back and forth in front of her like a caged animal, his rage on clear display. His facial features were contorted into a deep scowl and his muscles were tensed to the point where his veins were visibly bulging. _How dare she!_

Jace whipped around at a dangerously quick pace, unfazed by the look of bewilderment on Clary's face. He could see nothing but red. "Never, _ever_ , say that about Stephen and Celine Herondale ever again," he snarled in a low voice, his golden eyes darkening to ochre with fury.

Clary visibly winced, taken aback by the acid in his tone. She began to slowly cower away from him but Jace wasn't having any of it—he only edged closer to her, oblivious to her discomfort, to her _fear_ of him.

"Do you know who your father really is, _Your Highness_?" Jace spat venomously, his loathing eyes trained on Clary's. She shook her head helplessly, then as if her knees could no longer hold her weight up, she collapsed against the bench, whimpering loudly.

"No?" Jace laughed mirthlessly. "Well, let me tell you about your _father_ , princess. He is nothing more than a traitor—a murderer and a liar!" He screamed, his face mere inches away from her tear-streaked one. A tiny voice urged him to stop—he was taking his anger out on the _wrong_ person—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not when the anger had taken full control of him, wrapping itself around him like a thick cloud, consuming him, blinding him.

"And _you_ —" Jace pointed a finger at her, a look of hurt and betrayal crossing his face. "You're nothing more than your father's little puppet! You're such a hypocrite! You say gladiators repulse you with their inability to blink an eye and to feel remorse when they kill another human being, and yet, you sit here and you applaud your father's crimes, calling it poetic justice! And to think that you were different, _I just_ —"

He raised his hands, and Clary, most likely thinking that he was about to hit her, moved her arms up to shield herself, sobbing loudly. The genuine terror in her cries cut through his angry haze, and Jace stared at Clary, his golden eyes wide with horror. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slowly backed away from her, his face painted with guilt and remorse.

She remained frozen on the bench, her body still shaking as more tears rolled down her porcelain-like face. He dragged a callused hand across his face, his chest constricting with shame and self-disgust. There were no words to explain how much he wanted to kick himself in the gut in that very moment. She thought he was going to hit her, for God's sake!

And the way she was looking at him…as if he were the predator cornering his weak, defenseless prey, he felt his heart break.

He did this. He scared her and it broke him. He had to fix this.

"I'm so sorry, Milady. I didn't mean to lose my temper at you. I don't know what came over me," Jace apologized, his voice heavy with regret. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Please forgive me. I'm so sorry," he said, kneeling down in front of her and cautiously taking her tiny, soft hands into his. He pressed his lips to them, kissing them gently. The gesture seemed to do the trick as Clary's sobs subsided into quiet hiccups. The tips of her fingers brushed his chin, a feather-like, tentative touch, and slowly, he looked up at her.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his heart clenching at the sight of her red-rimmed, glassy green eyes. She looked calmer, but still understandably, terrified of him.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a woman's distressed voice chimed in. "There you are, Clary! I've been looking all over for you!"

"Izzy," Clary said, hastily wiping her eyes as a raven-haired beauty approached them, the young boy Max hot on her heels. Jace tugged the front of his hood over his head self-consciously as he got to his feet, trying to put as much distance as possible between Clary and himself.

"Oh, Clary—You've been crying. Are you okay?" The girl— _Izzy_ —asked, her tone laden with concern. When her dark eyes inadvertently landed on him, she tugged Clary behind her before turning her attention to him. Jace almost flinched at the dagger look she was shooting him. If he had thought that Clary was a feisty one, this other girl was another story of her own, eyeing him up and down in a manner that left him feeling exposed and maybe even a little _emasculated_. He had never felt more thankful for Michael's cloak; at least it gave him some form of protection from the servant girl's vicious scrutiny. "Did he do anything to you? Did the _bastard_ hurt you?" The girl demanded.

"Izzy, calm—" Clary began but was cut off by the other girl hurling a threat in Jace's direction.

"You listen to me, you good-for-nothing scoundrel! If you hurt her—"

"I _didn't_ hurt her," Jace interrupted, his voice stern. "We just had a misunderstanding, is all. I've already apologized to her." His eyes darted to Clary, who was biting her lip and looking extremely uncomfortable by the situation. "And for the record, my parents were married when they had me, so that makes me a very much _legitimate_ child," he added in a lighter tone, more for the sake of defusing the tension. Clary cracked a smile—a barely there one, but a smile nonetheless—and rolled her eyes.

"He's right, Iz," she said softly. "He didn't do anything to me. We're fine." The girl raised a skeptical eyebrow and continued to glower at Jace. Clary sighed. "Iz, stop glaring at him. I meant what I said, now _go_ —" She pointed to the direction of the palace. "I'll catch up with you and Max."

Izzy huffed at being dismissed by the princess but did as she was told, dragging Max behind her. The boy gave him another awed smile and wave. Jace looked away from them, sheepish.

When they were out of hearing range, Clary finally addressed him. "You're forgiven," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take my leave." Not giving him the chance to respond, she walked away from him, her steps slow and hesitant, as if she didn't _want_ to go. She stopped suddenly, looking at him from over her shoulder. He couldn't see her entire face, but it was enough for him to see that she was smiling.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Shadowhunter. And good luck for the games." She bit her lip, almost shyly. "If fate were so kind to us both, I'll expect to see you again in the near future. Farewell." She gave him a parting nod as their eyes met another time, then she was gone, her heels clacking against the pavement.

"Farewell…Clary," Jace whispered once she was out of earshot, liking how effortlessly her name rolled off his tongue _._

He watched as the beautiful princess sashayed away, leaving him to ponder over her words. _Will I ever get to see her again? Will she ever talk to me again if our paths were to cross?_ Jace didn't know. But one thing was for sure—

He certainly hoped they would meet again soon.

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 **A/N: Whoa, that's one pretty lengthy chapter. If you're a returning reader, you would probably notice a lot of changes being made here. For one, I went a little deeper into Jace's relationship with Michael and Jace had a slightly longer conversation with Max... so there.**

 **Please review! This story is something that I've worked on for three whole years, since 2014. If you could spare me a minute of your time to write a review on your thoughts or feedback on the chapter, I would be most appreciative of it.**

 **Those who have reviewed so far, thank you all so much :)**


	4. Chapter 3: Of Doubts & Acquaintances

_**A/N: Ack, I've been experiencing technical difficulties with FF trying to upload this chapter. So annoyed.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

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 **CHAPTER 3: OF DOUBTS AND ACQUAINTANCES**

 **September 3, 508 _(part II)_**

Silence hung in the air as Jace walked alongside Michael. Despite the latter's numerous attempts at starting a conversation, Jace couldn't bring himself to amuse him with anything more than the occasional noncommital grunt and monosyllabic answers like "yes", "no" and "fine", that after a while, Michael finally sighed in defeat and left him be.

Jace's only excuse for his lack of response was that it would take too much of an effort—effort _and_ energy he didn't think he had. He felt mentally incapacitated as his mind kept wandering back to his encounter with Clary at the market, replaying each moment over and over again.

 _Why can't I get her out of my head?_

Jace frowned, the lines of confusion and bewilderment marring his face. He had never particularly cared about girls before…so why did he now? What was it about Clary that made her so special, so intriguing to him?

Sighing, he rubbed furiously at his temples, searching his heart, probing his mind for an answer that seemed to continuously elude him. As if the situation could not be aggravated any further, bursts of images began to dart across his vision in quick, rapid succession. They moved too fast until the images started to blur together, until the only things he could distinguish from all the chaos were two colors: _green_ and _red_.

Clary's green eyes.

Clary's red hair.

Vaguely, he wondered what it would feel like to comb his long, pianist fingers through those beautiful tresses of hers. Was it as soft and silky as it looked? Or was it rough and frizzy?

 _She's your sworn enemy's daughter. You promised to kill him. You promised to kill his family. And that includes her!_ The hate-filled monster in him goaded, instantly crushing him out of his dream-like trance.

Jace's jaw set and the semblance of a smile that had graced his lips moments ago slipped away. Try as he might, he didn't know _what_ to think.

Before today, he had been convinced that he would feel the same amount of loathing and ire when he finally met the people who shared the same blood as the fiend—that his heart would _know_ before his mind did; that the pulsing hatred would course through his veins and fill him with scorching heat; that his only relief would come after he'd slaughtered them—every single one of them who was associated with Valentine, who was a _Morgenstern_.

Except, he didn't feel any of those things when he met Clary.

Nothing except for _awe_ , that the very sight of her had knocked him into a speechless stupor. Had he not already been kneeling on the ground, he would have probably fallen to his knees at the first glimpse of her stomping towards him—or more than likely, towards _Max_ , but that was a trivial matter of semantics he unwittingly chose to ignore.

He could still remember how his heart had slammed against his chest, how his palms had turned sweaty with nervousness, how his breath had caught in his throat when her green eyes met his; how he'd stuttered, grappling for words when she finally addressed him. He had never reacted that way with anyone before.

Since his mother's death, one of the many things that Jace had learned, _taught_ himself to do, was to sever his emotional ties from anything and everything. With time, he realized that it was easier to be disinterested and apathetic towards things. He didn't need to worry about committing himself to anything.

All he ever needed, all he should ever need to care about, was himself.

 _"After a while, I just got used to it, I don't feel anything anymore when I fight, or when I kill. I'm just…I've grown numb to it, I guess,"_ He remembered himself saying to Clary.

And all of it—everything about his declaration, albeit callous and sad—was true.

For the longest time, Jace had been numb. Emotionless. Desensitized. He didn't care about people, not when they existed as a mere passing in his life.

Gladiators like him didn't stay in one place for too long. That was the one thing Michael always made sure of. They traveled ever so often, with Jace competing in one arena after another. It was the only way to build his reputation and to spread word of his skill.

He had seen many things, met the worst kinds of people, cringed at some of them, but after everything, he was still numb. So how did _Clary_ of all people peel away his numbness? How did she succeed in not only making him feel something, but things he shouldn't feel for the enemy's daughter?

How did she make him _want_ her?

A selfish part of his brain reasoned that maybe, _just_ _maybe_ , the reason behind his desire for her was because of the fact that she was who she was: the enemy's daughter. Maybe he just desired a taste of the forbidden fruit.

 _After all, it is human nature to always want what we can't have, right?_

The thought sickened Jace more than he thought possible, and he groaned loudly, one hand pressed against his stomach as a strong wave of nausea assaulted him.

"Are you feeling all right, Jace?" Michael asked, momentarily sparing him from his inner turmoil but forcing him into a conversation he didn't want to have.

Jace turned to his master, annoyance shooting through him from the look of concern he was giving him. He rolled his eyes and turned away.

"I'm fine," he grunted his response. "Must have been the apple I ate just now. There's nothing to worry about." He finished evasively, hoping that Michael would take the hint and not prod him any further.

He didn't.

"You look like you're going to be sick."

"And I told you before—I'm _fine_." Jace glowered at his master, a slight color returning to his cheeks. He felt embarrassed that Michael had called him out on his sudden bout of 'sickness' instead of letting him be. He was a gladiator, not a pansy. He didn't want to talk to his master about his _feelings_ , regardless of whatever kindness Michael had shown him in the market earlier. He didn't owe him an explanation.

"Besides," He looked away from him, his voice cool, "Since when have you cared? I'm just your gladiator, not your son. I don't need your worry."

Michael seemed to consider this for a moment, his eyes flashing with hurt.

Jace swallowed. He contemplated apologizing, but what exactly would he be apologizing for? Technically, it wasn't a lie. Michael was his master, not his father. He should have known better than to overstep such boundaries that made them what they were—a master and his slave. There could be no room for attachment.

"Did something happen?" Michael finally asked, breaking the tense silence between them.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jace brushed him off, his tone cold and defensive. This was necessary, he told himself. He couldn't let Michael in—he couldn't let _anyone_ in. "If something _did_ happen, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"

Michael made a gesture to retort but Jace quickly cut him off. "When are we going to reach Dumont?" He asked indifferently, hoping to change the subject.

"Soon…" Michael finally obliged, though he continued to shoot him worried looks out of the corner of his eye.

Jace did nothing but hastened his steps, taking momentary comfort in the knowledge that the faster they reached Dumont, the sooner Michael's attention would be diverted from him. To his relief, Michael seemed to have finally caught on and left him alone to his moping. Save for the steady crunching sounds their boots made each time they came into contact with the concrete ground, it was silent once again.

 _Good,_ Jace thought. He liked the silence, void of interrogation and petty remarks.

But as he soon learned, silence was just as detrimental.

Silence gave him undesired time to _think_.

Against his better lack of self-control, Jace found his mind coasting back to Clary—to her delicate, porcelain-doll face, fiery-red hair, and enchanting emerald green eyes; to her sweet and gentle voice; to the way she had looked at him, wary and afraid at times, but mostly with kindness. He was no fit company for a princess, but she hadn't spurned him from her presence. Instead, she'd allowed him to follow her around, to sit with her, to talk to her. And to an extent, he'd liked talking to her, daresay even, enjoyed her company.

He liked her sharp wit, how she wasn't afraid to be blunt. But most of all, he was intrigued by the air of secrecy that surrounded her. The way she carried herself, almost as if she had walls of her own—like him.

 _She's Valentine's daughter, she's Valentine's daughter, she's Valentine's daughter,_ Jace forced himself to think.

But like most words that were often repeated in his childhood, the meaning of those three words—"She's Valentine's daughter"—became completely lost.

They were just empty words. Meaningless words.

 _So what if she is?_

 _NO, STOP IT!_ An angry voice chastised him. _Don't let her distract you from what really matters here—Valentine. It's always been about Valentine. It's always been about avenging your parents. Not Clary. This has never been about Clary. She's not important here. Forget her, Jace. She'll only ruin you. She'll RUIN you._

At this point, Jace was sorely tempted to rip his hair out by the roots. All of it was turning into a conundrum—an extremely unnecessary and maddening conundrum. He'd known Clary for all of what, one, two _hours_?

The more he thought about it, the more stupid he felt. How could one meeting change him so much in such a short span of time? How did he let himself care—let himself fall into such recklessness, to let her inside of his head?

He wished it was easy to put an end to his restless thoughts and emotions—to extinguish them, so to speak—but it wasn't. With any other person, it was easy to be indifferent. Easy to not feel anything. But his stupid, idiotic, asinine mind had decided that Clary _wasn't_ just 'any other person'. And it unnerved him that he couldn't come up with a single reason as to why he thought that way about her.

Why was he so infatuated, so drawn to her? The way he'd reacted to her, the way he was _still_ reacting to the mere thought of her, was akin to a sailor who had been enticed by a sea siren's spell.

She was dangerous, but mostly beautiful _._ And he was drawn to that dangerous beauty.

Was that all then? Was that all that had mattered to him? Her beauty?

There were plenty of other pretty girls out there too. Ones who were safer, easier—

Jace immediately squashed that thought. The last thing he wanted to do was to become a shallow-minded brute. He was raised to be better than this. He _knew_ better.

Pursing his lips, he thought back to his brief albeit eventful encounter with Clary in the market, trying to dissect each detail with a detached and objective mind.

As the image of her, stricken and fearful-eyed abruptly emerged, singeing the deepest parts of his brain, he clamped his eyes shut tightly, shaking his head to get rid of the memory.

He knew that it was irrational of him, but he couldn't help the stabbing hurt he felt over the way she had shielded herself from him, as if she'd been afraid that he would strike her; as if she didn't _trust_ him enough to be able to contain his anger.

Granted, he hadn't done anything to earn her trust, but still…

Everything about that memory stung him, more than he cared to admit _._ Jace was a gladiator, but he was no savage. He wouldn't have hurt her. Hell, he would never lay his hands disrespectfully on a woman, period.

Knowing that, however, did not stop the self-contradicting embarrassment and guilt from overshadowing his own hurt. Worse, he couldn't help but compare himself to Valentine, the vile monster who had violated his mother and then murdered her in cold blood. In the heat of his ire, he'd turned into a shadow of the man he hated the most.

 _So maybe you did,_ his inner demon whispered. _But who's to say she was completely innocent in all of this? Who's to say that the blame wasn't partially hers to bear?_

Jace clenched his fist, second-guessing himself yet again. He _had_ a valid reason to be mad at Clary, hadn't he? She had insulted his parents—in turn, she'd insulted _him_.

Even if she didn't know of his true identity, she had no right to insult the Herondales, especially when she hadn't been there to witness the things he did that night. Clary had only ever been fed with _lies_ by Valentine, and she'd naïvely believed the man and supported his actions of murdering his parents.

So what did that make her?

Was she the girl who felt a shred of humanity and compassion for the gladiators?

Or was she just a Morgenstern, a girl who had deluded herself into thinking it _was_ her father's right to kill the Herondales?

Jace's head throbbed with the neverending list of questions that seemed to bombard him without pause. His quandary didn't stop there either.

Clary's supposed revelation about a history between his parents and Valentine had definitely thrown him off balance, splintering long, jagged cracks in everything he'd thought he knew.

His father and Valentine used to be adopted siblings? His mother was Valentine's former lover? Was it possible that his parents had been involved in all those treachery—that they'd framed Valentine for a crime he didn't commit? Was it possible that they had both been so desperate as to gain the throne that they'd resorted to such lengths?

But if any of it were true, wouldn't that make Clary right—that Stephen and Celine were both delivered poetic justice for betraying Valentine?

Jace cringed at the possibility. If that _were_ the case then, where did _he_ stand? Would it be right if he were to reclaim his so-called birthright, something that was never actually meant to be his? Or were they more lies that Valentine had created to cover his tracks, to make him appear as an innocent victim in his family's eyes?

And then…what about Michael?

Not only was his master a former citizen of Idris, but he was also his father's former General. Surely he would have known about all of this…mess.

Jace contemplated asking Michael, to clarify all of these unanswered questions, but if Michael did know, why hadn't he said anything in the first place? Whether it was true or not, Jace had the _right_ to know about his parents.

So what did that make Michael?

Whose side was he on? And more importantly, whose side _is_ he on now? Could he even be trusted? What if he had something planned with Valentine? What if they had agreed for Michael to train Jace as a gladiator, gain his trust, and when the time came, he would bring Jace back to Idris and lead him like a lamb to his slaughter?

It sounded like a terribly elaborate scheme, but Jace wouldn't put it past Valentine to come up with something as vile and manipulative as that. Nothing seemed to be beneath him.

Jace groaned. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why?

 _Curse it, Clary! Why did you have to tell me all of this and plant this seed of doubt in me? I had a perfectly laid-out plan_ — _I was ready to follow it through to the end, but you just had to come along and ruin everything!_ He thought, raking his fingers through his messier than usual curls.

Somewhere within the cavernous depths of his mind, he realized that the reason Clary even told him all that information in first place was because of _him_.

He'd asked her, and she'd answered. Simple as that.

So really, _he_ was the only one to blame.

 _Stupid, stupid boy! Why couldn't you have just walked away from her?_

"There it is!" Michael exclaimed, pointing to the tall, sturdy structure that loomed ahead of them.

Jace's head snapped up, and his breath caught in his throat as he took in the majestic sight of the Arena Dumont.

It was huge—astoundingly huge.

Standing at a soaring height of two hundred feet, the arena was a monumental façade that was built in an elliptical shape, comprising of four stories of superimposed galleries. Gracing the white marble stone of the structure were statues of avenging warriors who wielded a number of weapons, and fine, intricate carvings of ancient runes of strength, agility and fearlessness that were believed to be symbols of power drawn by the earliest gladiators when in battle. Just above the main entrance was an engraving of the royal crest—a falling star—an emblem belonging the ruling family of Idris, the Morgensterns.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Michael asked as they entered the arena.

Jace didn't utter a word, though his eyes conveyed his childlike enthusiasm. It wasn't often he openly showed emotion, much less any that bordered on wonderment. Usually, he tended to behave much older than his actual age, his expressions varying from bored to broody to inscrutable.

Feeling Michael's gaze on him, he nodded once, his tongue unable to form a single word to describe just how impressed he actually was. He could definitely see why Dumont was boasted to be 'the arena of all arenas'. It was amazing, really.

"If we had time, we could have probably taken a short tour of the place… But as it is, we are already running late. They've been expecting our arrival at the gladiator barracks over ten minutes ago, so I'm afraid we would have to forgo our little field trip of the place," Michael said, much to Jace's utmost disappointment.

"We'll have time to look around once we've settled in, Jace. No need to look so disgruntled," Michael added, mocking his sulky expression.

Jace shot him a dirty look but chose to say nothing, Michael's quiet chuckles filling the air as they navigated their way through the arena's tunnels.

* * *

"Welcome to the gladiator barracks." A deep voice greeted them as they exited the tunnels.

Jace examined the two guards, his expression stoic. The both of them looked to be in their early thirties, and were dressed in similar fashion—a simple leather armor worn over a red cotton tunic. They each carried a shortsword, which were sheathed on their belts, and while they looked intimidating enough, Jace didn't find them frightening in the least. He had seen far worse, men with scars and tattoos adorning their faces.

"Your name, Sir?"

"Scarsbury," Michael lied smoothly.

Jace had never really understood his master's reasons for concealing his real name, but he had done it for as long as he could remember. Everyone—his hired guards and gladiators included—knew him as Michael Scarsbury, not Wayland. He was the only exception.

"I believe my own guards arrived here over an hour ago with the rest of my gladiators…"

Having quickly lost interest, Jace drowned out the rest of the exchange between Michael and the two guards, instead taking in the sight of the gladiator barracks—his home for the next couple of months.

An expanse of lush green field stretched across from him, surrounded by evenly interspersed pillars to form the simulation of a battlefield. Just beyond the training space, to his right, were the standard holding cells to accommodate the gladiators; and to his left, Jace assumed, was the mess hall where the gladiators gathered for their meals.

"You may find the warden, Emil Pangborn, in the mess hall." The guard pointed to the white, run-down 'building'—if one could even call it that—located at the far-left side of the field.

Michael nodded his thanks before striding off, Jace trailing him at his side. They crossed the field quickly and before Jace knew it, they were both standing outside the wooden doors of the mess hall.

 _This is it._

Michael gave him a small smile, then pushed the doors open. Almost immediately, Jace sucked in a sharp breath.

In stark contrast to the grandeur of the arena, the mess hall was a shambles, with wooden floors that were so moldy and dusty he wondered when was the last time someone had even bothered to mop it. The stucco walls, which had been painted white, were peeling and yellowing with age. The same could be said for the ceiling, which was lined with cracks and had cobwebs dangling from the edges.

A rusty Gothic chandelier lined with old French candles hung precariously from the middle of it. Jace made a mental note to steer clear of said chandelier, lest it finally gave way to gravity and killed an innocent bystander.

"Grand indeed," Jace muttered in a flat tone, earning an elbow jab to the side from Michael. He turned to glower at his master, a quipped retort at the ready, when he realized—or rather, _felt_ the burning stares from the rest of the room's occupants.

Exhaling a slow breath, he turned to face them, finding thirty pairs of curious eyes already staring back. Seven of those faces he already knew—Michael's other gladiators-in-training. They occupied one of the tables near the back, away from the rest of the native Idrisian gladiators. For once, Jace couldn't say that he blamed them; the latter group didn't exactly look like the welcoming bunch.

He let out a low whistle underneath his breath and turned just in time to see a tall, burly man approaching them. His black hair was cropped short, and he wore the most bored expression Jace had ever seen on a person's face. It irritated him so much that his mouth itched with a rude comment.

"Emil Pangborn, the warden of Dumont." The man offered his hand to Michael. "I am in charge of all the guards and gladiators here, overseeing their duties and training and such," he said in a blasé tone.

"Michael Scarsbury," Michael returned, shaking the man's hand civilly. "This is my gladiator, Shadowhunter." He gestured to Jace, who nodded curtly in greeting, his expression guarded and aloof. It was agreed between Jace and Michael, that for the sake of Jace's safety, his real identity would be kept anonymous and thus, he would only be known by his gladiator name, Shadowhunter.

"Ah, Shadowhunter. So you're the one they've been talking about. It's an honor to finally have you here," Emil said, his smile contradicting the insincerity in his tone.

 _I can't say the sentiment is reciprocated_ , Jace thought.

"Nice to meet you," he replied instead, but in a fairly jaded tone. He didn't even bother to look at Emil as he spoke. He found it far more interesting to scan the faces of the other gladiators who were, in turn, now eyeballing him with obvious distaste.

"May I go join them?" Jace asked, sparing his master a brief glance.

"Of course, I'll talk to you later," Michael answered with a nod.

As Jace took a step forward, Michael gently tugged his elbow back and whispered knowingly, "Remember to play nice, Shadowhunter. Wouldn't want to make enemies on your first day of _school_."

Jace pulled back, an eyebrow cocked at Michael. The latter threw him a playful wink but his brown eyes held the same stern warning: 'Play nice'. Jace's lips twitched into a half-smirk. "No need to fret over me, Master. I'm always _nice_."

Before Michael could put in another word, he marched off to collect his lunch, a cool smirk plastered onto his face.

At that very moment, his mind was the clearest it had ever been since his encounter with Clary in the market. All of it—his doubts, his confusion, his anger—had been shoved to the back of his mind, leaving him, admittedly, in a frisky sort of mood.

Jace's gaze landed on the youngest-looking group of gladiators in the room. All of them wore bitter expressions on their faces, and were _still_ glaring at him. His grin widened.

 _Time to get acquainted with my new buddies,_ he thought as he stalked towards them, a swagger in his stride.

Deep down, Jace felt his mood improvement was a miracle in light of recent events, but he also knew how much Michael hated it when he was in such… _high spirits_. It was to an extent, according to Michael anyway, worse than when he was brooding or feeling waspish in general. He was always up to no good.

"Hello, there," Jace greeted them in an exceptionally cheery voice. He registered the immediate tension that came with his uninvited presence, but paid no heed as took his seat. The bowl of thick, lumpy broth looked far less inviting, but he dug into it anyway—it was either that or nothing, and he was already hungry.

"You know, I have a strong feeling that we're all going to be the best of friends," he said, deliberately showing off the masticated contents in his mouth. "Oh, I know! How about we all hang out in my cell tonight? We could braid each other's hair and get to know one another better. What do you say?" Jace prattled on incessantly, not concerned in the least as bits and pieces of food in his mouth flew all over the table and incidentally landed on one of the gladiators' face.

The man with jet-black hair and cold blue eyes seated across from Jace—the victim of his food spit, apparently—wiped his face with an undisguised look of disgust. He slammed his fist down against the table, causing the utensils to rattle furiously.

"Why don't you just step off?" He snarled in an acidic tone as he leaned forward in his seat. "Just because you're the _oh-so-famous_ Shadowhunter, it doesn't mean you get to throw your weight around here. In fact, I'd watch your back if I were you. You're the first one I'll kill tomorrow," he threatened.

Anyone wiser would have backed down after such a threat, but Jace wasn't exactly wise or sensible. In fact, he _enjoyed_ egging people on. It was a talent of his.

Wiping an invisible tear from his eye, Jace feigned a theatrical sob. "Why are you being so mean to me? I only want to make friends!" In a puerile tantrum, he flung his spoon across the table and began to weep loudly, purposely attracting the attention of everyone else in the room—Michael included.

His master gave him a desperate look, one that said 'Please don't do this.' But Jace paid him no heed, not even when the latter shook his head and buried his face into his hands.

"SHUT UP!"

The blue-eyed boy swung his fist forward, and Jace, having seen it coming, speedily ducked out of the way. Leaping into a crouch atop the bench, he took his own swing at the boy. His fist connected with the latter's jaw, _hard_ , sending him sprawling across the floor.

"You're dead!" The boy yelled savagely. He sprung to his feet and charged towards Jace, his arms tackling him roughly by the waist.

Within seconds, both boys were on the ground, taking turns throwing swift kicks and punches at each other. None of the other gladiators even bothered to intervene. Instead, they stood at the sides of the mess hall, watching the scuffle with amusement.

A couple of bruises and a bloodied lip later, the two of them were finally disentangled from each other by a group of guards.

"This isn't over yet! You're a dead man, you hear me? DEAD!" The boy screamed, his body struggling viciously against the three pairs of hands that were restraining him.

Jace was the complete opposite. He held himself together in a relaxed stance, his arms folded across his chest as he petulantly made faces at the other boy. This only served to infuriate him further and caused his flailing to become even more forceful.

Three more guards stepped forward, forming a human cage around the blue-eyed boy. He stubbornly shrugged them off as they tried to grip him by the shoulders, and reluctantly followed them out of the mess hall. He paused just before he was out of sight, shooting Jace another dirty look and mouthing the words: 'I'll kill you'.

Jace's only response was a smile.

As much as he was determined to kill Valentine, he enjoyed starting fights among his fellow gladiators. To him, it was just as much as sizing up the competition as it was to send a message that he was not one who was easily intimidated.

And in this case, it sated his need for a distraction from all of his _newer_ problems.

"What the hell was that, Shadowhunter?" Michael hissed, delivering a swift thwack to the back of Jace's head. He frowned and rubbed at the soreness. "Do you want to get thrown out of here before you even start?"

Rolling his eyes, Jace leveled his master with an insouciant expression. "No."

" _No?_ Then why do you insist on behaving like this? Starting fights with people you've only met? You're only painting a target on your back," Michael tugged him sharply by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. When Jace sent a glare his way, the older man sighed, then lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I can't look out for you if you're being reckless, _Jace_. I understand how hard this must be for you, but you really need to learn how to control yourself. Stop making a scene. Are we clear?" Michael asked, his voice stern.

"Crystal," Jace replied, not sounding in the least bit sincere.

"See to it that you help with the dishes after lunch," Michael said, eyeing Emil from over Jace's shoulder. "I don't want to see you anywhere near the training field until every single piece of cutlery is spotless. _Now go_."

* * *

When Jace was finally dismissed to the field for training, he caught sight of the blue-eyed boy, a wooden blade in hand as he sparred with Bat, one of Michael's better gladiators.

Unable to peel his gaze away from them, he took stock against one of the pillars, his golden eyes narrowed in scrutiny as he watched the two spar.

 _Blue Eyes_ was good, Jace decided, a fairly proficient fighter although his fighting style was quite different from his own.

While Jace was much more acrobatic and depended on his agility to wear his opponent down, _Blue Eyes_ relied more on his body strength, focusing on landing as direct, accurate and debilitating a blow as possible to end the fight quickly.

A few more traded blows later, _Blue Eyes_ had Bat pinned to the ground, the tip of his wooden sword pressed sharply against his throat. His lips twitched into a victorious smirk, then as if he'd realized that he was being watched, his gaze darted to meet Jace's.

His reaction was almost instantaneous. _Blue Eyes_ 's jaw locked with rage and he made a move to lunge towards Jace—nearly succeeding, too—when a handful of guards stepped in and dragged him towards the opposite end of the field.

Jace didn't miss the slew of derogatory remarks that were thrown his way, one in particular that rhymed with 'ducking glassmole'.

He shook his head and walked towards his own corner, catching out of his peripheral vision several more of the guards eyeing him warily while communicating with each other using hand signals. Were they seriously worried that he would start another fight? He rolled his eyes again. _Oh men of little faith,_ he thought before executing a series of basic exercises to warm himself up.

The temptation to slip into his internal tug-of-war mode was strong, but he fought against it with every ounce of self-control he had. Now wasn't the time to be brooding and miserable. He needed to keep his head on straight. He needed to _focus._

So like every other time he willed himself to slip into that zone—the one that made him feel invincible, indomitable, untouchable—Jace conjured up the image of the man he despised the most: Valentine.

Instantly, he felt the anger scorch his veins, expunging every other emotion that rendered him weak and vulnerable. Sadness, confusion, loss—those were irrelevant when he was fighting. He let them go, pushing himself to escape into the darker, restrained part of his subconscious.

To become Shadowhunter.

As the seconds ticked by into minutes, and the minutes stretched into hours, Jace began to lose himself in training, even managing to spar with a couple of the gladiators who were more than willing to challenge the great Shadowhunter's skills.

Much like the name of his choosing suggested, Jace was a hunter in true form. He would often lie in wait, parrying blows while studying his adversary's movements, holding himself back from striking until the last possible second.

Despite his short temper, fighting was the one thing that he actually bothered with patience. Not realizing that his lack of offense was actually part of his plan to wear his opponents down, they would often hit harder blows in vain attempts to weaken him, only to grow progressively wearier as the fight went on.

It was the perfect strategy, or at least, one that had always worked well for him. He would wait until the tide shifted in his favor, and then, only _then_ , would he best his opponents—each with only a single blow. He was just that good. He was really, _really_ good.

If Jace was ever tired, he never showed it either. Michael often chastised him for this, claiming that such intensity reflected only a fraction of perseverance and a hell lot of recklessness. _"Don't be stupid. Learn your limits. Know when to give yourself a break or you're going to burn out,"_ his master had said, on more than one occasion, in fact.

But Jace never listened—not then, and especially not now.

Being back at home—and so, _so_ close to the finish line that he could almost taste it—he couldn't afford to slip up and miss the only shot he had at earning his redemption. There won't be another chance if he failed.

His pride and stubbornness was another factor. More than anything, he wanted to be ready. He wanted—no, _needed_ , to prove to the spectators and to Valentine that not only was he a top contender, but an absolute force to be reckoned with.

And _if_ by any stroke of misfortune he did fail, he would not regret it as much—because he knew he had poured in his all. Nothing short of his all.

Jace kept reminding himself of this—anything that helped to keep his mind on the straight path—even when night fell over Idris and the moon rose to take its place amongst the constellations. While the rest of the gladiators retired for the night, he remained awake, too keyed up for sleep. He was like a livewire, his body buzzing, thrumming with adrenaline.

Turning over onto his back, Jace tucked his hands beneath his head and looked up at the ceiling. It took a long time before his mind quieted, images of a red-haired girl blurring until he had them wiped out of his mind completely.

He knew it wouldn't be long before she became an issue again, but for now, he was content to leave his worries about her to rest.

The trial games first.

Earn his freedom next.

And then…Valentine.

That was the only order of things he should concern himself with.

 _Watch out, Valentine. I'm coming for you. I'm ready for anything you throw at me,_ he thought darkly. Nothing mattered more than being focused and confident—the only thing he needed to be walking into the trial games tomorrow.

 _You are my target, and I am the arrow that's ready to strike you down._

* * *

 ** _A/N: Next chapter's going to be more action-packed because that's where we see Jace in all his gladiator glory. Stay tuned!_**


	5. Chapter 4: The Trial Games

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4: THE TRIAL GAMES**

 **September 4, 508**

"GLADIATORS, LISTEN UP!" The strident timbre of Emil's voice echoed loud and clear in the arena's tunnels. He trudged past the huddle of gladiators until he was standing directly in front of the massive, iron-wrought gates.

Several of the arena guards flanked the sides of the tunnel, some of them stood in silence while others barked orders at the gladiators to shut up.

Jace stood off to the side, isolating himself from the rest of the group as much as possible. He could hear the cacophony of voices aboveground—of hundreds of thousands of spectators cheering, clapping and some even stomping their feet. The air was charged with wild energy and excitement, and in a word to describe the moment, it was crazy.

So absolutely _crazy_ , in fact, it was almost impossible to stay still.

The intense rush of adrenaline coursed through Jace's veins like electricity, and he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, his golden eyes ablaze with delirium.

He longed for the weight of a sword in his hand, to wrap his fingers around the hilt, to charge onto the battlefield… His hands curled into fists at his sides, gripping nothing but air and his own callused skin.

 _It won't be long now,_ his conscience appeased him.

"The outline of today's event is simple—You will NOT be fighting against each other. No, today it's going to be a full-out massacre where you will all be chained to a pillar in the middle of that arena, and you will be forced to fend off the attack against the Idrisian prisoners-of-war!" Emil thundered, a malicious smirk spreading across his face. "Make it out of there alive and you'll qualify for the final gladiator games, and if you don't, then you unlucky bastards are going to be dinner for the lions tonight, understood?!"

 _Now there's a lovely chap who enjoys watching people getting their blood spilled_ , Jace thought derisively.

It was moments like these, when Emil reminded him that he wasn't merely a warrior but a slave to the arena, that genuinely piqued him. He didn't like being reminded that he was fighting on someone else's terms, that his life was of little to no value to others; that the _only_ _thing_ the people who thought themselves to be 'above' him seemed capable of doing was to threaten them—either fight and survive, or be dinner for the beasts.

As if he didn't already know that.

Having spent the last eight years of his life training and being groomed into a gladiator, he was well aware of the implications of each match. He just preferred to live with the pretense that he was fighting for _himself_ , not those self-important group of people who claimed themselves to be of higher power—the group of people who, like Valentine, lounged on their lavish thrones as if they were gods watching their chess pieces move. Fighting belonged to him, as should his own free will in life.

"Any questions?" Emil's voice reverberated off the walls as he inspected the gladiators, his hands clasped together behind his back in a firm stance.

For a split second, Jace thought he looked like a commander, his aura radiating power and confidence as he rallied his troops in the face of an epic battle.

Only, it was a laughable comparison. Emil didn't belong amongst the gladiators, and he most definitely _wasn't_ their leader in battle.

Jace sincerely doubted the man would even last one minute in the arena, unless he was smart enough to think of a defense strategy, which would more than likely involve using the other gladiators as a human shield.

He was half-tempted to shove Emil into the arena on the pretext of an 'accident', just to see how he would react. A myriad of plausible scenarios flashed before his mind, and he felt his lips curl into an amused smirk.

 _One day,_ Jace thought. _Just not today._

Too soon, the horn signaling the start of the games blared throughout Dumont, and as if on cue, the iron gates were slowly raised, giving rise to a whole other mechanical orchestra.

The crowd's cheers grew louder in restless anticipation, filling Jace with more excitement and determination than ever before. Surviving the battle was a given, but he was resolved to make an impression, not just on the people, but on Valentine.

Everything about it seemed awfully contradicting, he realized. He didn't owe it anyone to prove himself, least of all his parents' murderer, but he wanted to show _him_ , even if Valentine didn't know who he was, that he wasn't defeated, that he was still fighting back.

He needed to do it for the Herondales.

After ensuring that his armor was in place, he secured his helmet around his head. Michael had it specially comissioned for him two years ago in honor of his first victorious singles match. It was made of bronze and covered the entirety of his head and neck, with slits for the eyes and mouth. From afar, it looked like any other Corinthian helmet that gladiators wore to battle, except it bore the initials of his gladiator name on the back of it—S.H. for 'Shadowhunter'. Though on certain days, Jace preferred to interpret those initials for his father's name: Stephen Herondale.

"SHOW TIME!" Emil's voice sliced through the frenzied air once more.

Jace's eyes slipped shut and he inhaled a deep breath, letting his mind empty of all cumbersome thoughts. He felt his gladiator peers brush past him as they filed into the arena, but he didn't allow himself to move just yet.

He held himself back, always making sure that he was the last one to enter…and when he finally hurtled into the battlefield, he held his head up high, basking in the warmth of the sun that shone down on him like a spotlight. All the sounds meshed and blurred together until they were no more than dull white noise, and for several seconds, all he could hear was the steady drumming rhythm of his own heartbeat—nervous but strong.

 _I am ready, I am fearless,_ he chanted the words over and over again in his head like a mantra.

The moment the gates were lowered again, this time with a heavy, definitive thunk that could be likened to a death sentence for some, a group of armed guards—fifteen of them—came forward and began chaining the gladiators up to the huge pillar.

Being left-handed, Jace was relieved when his right hand was shackled instead of his left. He yanked against the chains, testing them. It wouldn't be completely impossible to wrench himself free from the pillar, but it wouldn't be easy either. He decided it wasn't worth the try. Even if they would restrict his movements to an extent, he was grateful that the chains were actually long enough for him to move about comfortably.

Catching a glint of silver on the ground, Jace bent down to pick up his sword. It was much lighter than the wooden ones he had been accustomed to practicing with, but then again, most of the weapons the gladiators used in training were double of their actual weight, made purposely so to help them condition their upper body and arm strength.

He propped up his shield at his side so that he could easily access it during the match later, then began to expertly swing the steel object around in a repetitive circular motion, moving only his wrist.

It was amazing how much he had adapted in just two short years. There was no longer that overwhelming feeling of lightheadedness that came with stepping into the arena. Despite what little nervousness he felt, the air he exuded was calm, cool and collected. He didn't fear death. He didn't think of death. Only victory.

As Jace's gaze darted to the other four entrances surrounding the arena, where his opponents—the Idrisian prisoners-of-war—would be released from, his golden eyes widened as a cold, disconcerting thought swept through his mind.

He had known from Emil's announcement that the approaching battle would be different, but it had not occurred to him just how mortifying the entire situation really was.

 _We're like cattle_ , he realized belatedly, his grip on his sword tightening. _A herd of cattle that had been raised and gathered for a mass slaughter._

The stakes involved in a handicap match posed a challenge like no other, but at the same time, it was a humiliating insult. They were gladiators, but weren't they human, too? So why were they being chained to a pillar and made to look like animals?

 _Because this has always been a game to them,_ the voice of reason answered in his head. _A game you play for_ their _entertainment. Do you honestly think anyone cares?_

Jace gritted his teeth and he looked up at the gallery, stupefied by the sight of a hundred thousand people on their feet, mindlessly cheering for the gladiators—or were they?

His expression soured. It was never a secret how much he despised the kings and emperors and officiators of the games, but before today, it had never dawned on him how much he would actually hate the _spectators_. It was like an infectious disease, the sudden bout of skepticism that gripped him. He couldn't help but question _what_ it was exactly that everyone else was cheering for.

Were they cheering the gladiators on for moral support, hoping that they would live, or were they cheering for a bloody carnage? For _death_?

The voice in his head answered again: _No one truly cares about you. You're expendable—you know this. You would be a fool to think otherwise._

 _I know,_ was the only response Jace could think of. _I know_ and _this is neither the time nor place to agonize over this. I have other more important things to worry about._

Shaking his head, his gaze flicked over to the balcony, where a magnificent dais had been constructed for the royal family. Much like the rest of the arena, it was all pure white marble, but embellished with gold trimmings and patterned engravings of the royal crest.

His golden eyes burned with rage when he saw Valentine, his white hair slicked back from his forehead, and his eyes painted a demonic black. He was dressed in an expensive royal blue tunic fitted with an elaborate leather armor, which accentuated his broad shoulders and even sturdier chest. It was startling how he seemed to have not aged a day since the last time Jace saw him. The absence of wrinkles and crow's feet on his face was more than an indication that he bore no guilt to his crimes. Unlike Jace, he didn't seem to have endured any sleepless nights. But why would he? He was a _monster_.

After speaking to one of the games's officials, Valentine stood up from his seat and raised his arms to greet the attendees. A heavily smug grin hung from his lips, Jace's hand shook with an ever blinding temptation to knock it off his face.

 _Your time will come soon,_ he promised, a low growl emitting from his throat.

"Welcome, people of Idris, to the preliminary round of the gladiator games!" Valentine's thunderous voice boomed across the arena.

Jace scoffed underneath his breath and rolled his eyes indignantly. Honest to God, he couldn't be bothered about what Valentine had to say—unless, of course, the loathsome excuse of a man was announcing that he was going to hurl himself into a pit filled with ravenous lions.

There was only one thing that was more off-putting than listening to a pretentious, power-hungry lunatic spouting about his self-centered ideals, and that was when such qualities were embodied in the devil who murdered his parents himself. Jace would give _anything_ to destroy his face and shut him up for good.

Clenching his jaw, his aureate eyes scanned the dais, taking in the sight of the rest of the Morgenstern family. It came as a surprise to him that Valentine's wife wasn't amongst them—perhaps she was ill? He didn't know what she looked like, but he imagined her to be the spitting image of Clary since the latter bore no resemblance to Valentine at all— _Thank God_ for that _._ Jace didn't know if he could 'tolerate' Clary if she looked anything at all like her demon of a father.

Seated to Valentine's right was a young man, several years Jace's senior, who looked like a younger version of the king, with his white-blond hair and tall, muscular build. The only stark difference between father and son was the seemingly playful demeanor he exuded as he joked with a person seated to his left: _Clary._

Jace stifled a gasp at the sight of her. She looked like a Grecian goddess, in a one-shoulder ivory silk dress, and a gold cinch-belt accenting her tiny waist. Her wavy, auburn hair hung over her right shoulder in a French braid, and a simple, ivy-themed tiara graced her delicate head. She was smiling at the young man—her brother—though even from where he stood, Jace could tell that she was uncomfortable. He could see it in the way she was fidgeting with her fingers and her eyes were constantly darting about the arena.

An odd sense of protectiveness washed over him. She shouldn't have been forced to be here if she didn't want to.

As if sensing Jace's stare, Clary's emerald eyes suddenly locked onto his, causing him to barely suppress a choke.

 _Does she recognize me?_ He wondered, only to come to a conclusion that no, she couldn't possibly have. After all, his helmet covered practically his entire face and even his hair. How could she have known that it was him?

Shaking his head, Jace looked up at the dais once more, this time unmistakably catching her staring at him. She gave him a small smile, just a barely-there tilt of her lips, and he felt his heart race. _Does she really—_

 _Of course not! It's just a coincidence, Jace. Stop obsessing over her,_ his subconscious interjected.

Deciding to let the matter go, he reluctantly dropped his gaze from Clary's and turned his head to his right.

To his astonishment, he found himself staring into the stormy blue eyes of the boy he'd fought with yesterday.

 _Blue Eyes_ was glaring at him, an intense look of grudge and hatred etched onto his face.

Normally, Jace would have made some sarcastic remark, but he found himself oddly struck with silence. He didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him before, but somehow, now that they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with each other, _Blue Eyes_ looked oddly familiar to him…

He scoured his mind for reasons as to why he thought that way, when all of a sudden, it clicked.

 _I know him_ , Jace thought, overwhelmed by the realization.

He saw in his mind's eye as his four-year-old self tackled a slightly bigger, seven-year-old boy with black hair and cerulean-blue eyes to the ground, the two of them rolling over playfully with laughter. The boy was obviously stronger than Jace, but being the good sport that he was, he allowed him to pin him down and claim the victory in their staged fight, even congratulating him with a pat to his back… That was, until Jace went a little overboard with his showboating.

 _"I won! I won!"_

 _"Get off of me, Jace! You're too heavy!"_

 _"Am not!" Four-year-old Jace grunted as the blue-eyed boy shoved him away from him, causing him to land on the grass with a thud. "Mean Allie-boo." He stuck his tongue out at the boy, and his nose wrinkled when he noticed the bloody scrape on his knee._

 _"Allie, I have an ouchie," Jace pouted, pointing to his knee._

 _Almost immediately, the dark-haired boy rolled over onto his knees, a look of concern flashing across his face. His hands, only slightly bigger than Jace's, hovered over the graze carefully. He'd barely even brushed it when Jace slapped his hands away._

 _"Don't touch it!"_

 _"I wasn't going to!"_

 _"Yes, you were! I saw you!" Jace's bottom lip trembled, and a few tears rolled down his cheeks. "It hurts," he whined._

 _"Don't cry, Jace. It's just a small ouchie. Here," The boy turned around so that his back was facing Jace. "Climb onto my back. I'll carry you home to your mommy."_

 _With a sniffle, Jace eagerly complied with his best friend's suggestion, partly because his knee hurt, but also because he was secretly feeling lazy to walk on his own. He wrapped his chubby arms around the boy's neck and squeezed tightly when the latter swayed unsteadily on his feet. "Don't drop me, Allie!"_

 _"I wasn't going to!"_

 _"You always say that!"_

 _"Well, you're going to have to trust me! And stop squirming!" The boy retorted, wobbling a little bit more before regaining his balance._

 _Slowly, the boy took a step forward, then another, his hands supporting Jace by the back of his knees. Jace tightened his grip when the boy wobbled._

 _He wasn't that heavy, was he? He wondered, but decided not to say anything lest his friend got mad at him and decided to make him walk on his own—and he really didn't want to walk on his own._

 _Growing increasingly weary of the slow pace, he leaned forward and rested his chin on the boy's shoulder, sighing sleepily. The other boy huffed._

 _"Jace?" The boy carefully jostled him._

 _A sudden idea hit Jace. "You know what we should do?" His high-pitched voice squealed into the boy's left ear. The boy cringed at the loud sound but miraculously didn't drop him. Jace's gap-toothed grin widened. "Become parabatai!"_

 _"Para-what?" The older boy asked, confused._

 _"Pa-ra-ba-tai," Jace enunciated as if he were talking to a baby. He felt a surge of pride for knowing something that his friend didn't. "It means brothers-in-arms, or something…"_

 _"Do you even know what that means?"_

 _"Mm-hmm," Jace said, nodding his head against the boy's shoulder. "Like best friends and brothers, but more. Parabatai protect each other, keep each other safe… Daddy told me about it once."_

 _"Hmm," The boy hummed thoughtfully. "How do we become this…parabatai?"_

 _Jace shrugged. "We just do."_

 _"And how do you know you want me to become yours?" The boy's voice was quiet, lined with an undertone of vulnerability._

 _"Because you protect me and carry me when I have an ouchie," Jace replied easily. "Like you're doing now. You're the only best friend I'll ever need."_

"Alec?" Jace asked hoarsely, startling the boy.

The latter's blue eyes blurred for a moment, as if he were sieving through his mind for a memory, before they quickly reclaimed their stormy gaze. His lips parted into a snarl and he swung his blade, pointing the sharp edge against Jace's throat, as if he meant to decapitate him.

"How the hell do you know my name?"

"Alec, it's me! It's Jace!"

Alec's blue eyes widened in shock, and his mouth fell agape as he stared into Jace's eyes. Something flashed in his eyes then—recognition—and his sword fell limply to his side.

"Jace?" His tone softened. "Jace Herondale?"

"Shh, keep it down! They don't know I'm _me_ ," Jace whispered back harshly before leaning in closer to Alec. He rolled his eyes when he noticed his old friend still gawking at him. "Honestly, Alec, I've said this before and I'll say it again—I know I'm stunningly attractive but you don't have to stare at me. And keep your mouth shut. You're going to choke to death on flies instead of being killed by those prisoners! Really Alec, just imagine the epitaph on your gravestone: _Alexander Gideon Lightwood, Gladiator of Idris, killed by common flies_ ," he quipped, rather inappropriately considering the weight of their situation.

"Oh shut up, Ja— _jackass_! I can't believe—" Alec stammered, seemingly at a loss for words. "Why didn't you say something earlier?" He finally asked, the joy and relief palpable in his voice. He knew that the latter was thinking the same thing. That after eight years of separation, they were finally together again.

Childhood playmates. Best friends. _Parabatai_.

"Well, I didn't have the chance to really look at you, given you were too busy trying to punch a hole into my face back at the mess hall," Jace replied smoothly. It was stupid now that he thought about it—how was it possible that he hadn't recognized Alec earlier yesterday? "You hit like a girl, by the way."

"I do not—" Alec cut himself off and shook his head, looking somewhat disbelieved. "This whole time… I thought you were _dead_ …"

"Nope," Jace shrugged. Alec's statement made his heart clench with gut-wrenching guilt as he was, once again, reminded of the loss of his parents. But he expertly masked it with nonchalance. "Still warm and breathing."

A second horn blew, prompting the gates of the four entrances to be raised. His conversation with Alec cut short, Jace looked up at the dais, noticing that Valentine had already finished his speech and was now seated beside his children.

"Let the games begin!" Valentine announced as he leaned forward in his seat.

The gladiators—sans Jace and Alec—raised their weapons in unison and shouted: "We who are about to die salute you!" followed by a chorus of cheers from the audience.

Then came the heavy footsteps of the prisoners, trudging into the battlefield like a wild herd in a stampede.

Jace's grip on his sword tightened, and his mouth set into a grim line. "Alec, if we're going to make out of this alive, we have to stay together and watch each other's backs," he said, meeting Alec's eyes firmly.

Alec nodded as he tapped the side of his sword against Jace's in silent agreement.

Some forty men dressed in prisoner uniforms emerged, ten from each of the four entrances, wielding throwing spears and swords in their hands. The expressions they wore on their faces were hard and unwavering, and it came as no surprise to Jace that the gladiators were outnumbered by at least fifteen people.

 _Fear not of numbers. Believe only in your own wit and strength,_ he heard Michael's voice echoing in his head.

As they got closer, Jace snapped into commander-mode, yelling out directions to the rest of the gladiators to huddle into close formation and to raise their shields in a defense position. The gladiators obeyed just in time as the prisoners began to hurl their spears towards them.

The spears landed everywhere: on the sandy ground of the arena, spiking some of the gladiators' shields, sticking out of the pillar, and even impaling four of the gladiators.

Once they had exhausted their throwing spears, the prisoners barreled towards their target, brandishing their swords wildly in the air. The gladiators held their ground, their eyes steeled forward as they readied for the attack.

And then the real fight began.

* * *

As swords clashed against one another, cries and yells rang out as blood began to stain the battleground. Jace and Alec stood back-to-back, easily working together to dodge the blows of their assailants and strike them down to their deaths.

Absorbed in the high of the battle, Jace's sword automatically became an extension of his own arm. He moved fast but controlled, his attacks fluid and smooth. Alec was just as proficient, channeling his aggression in each cleverly gauged hit, never having to take more than two swings to take out his opponent for good.

As it turned out, the Idrisian prisoners were only fairly-skilled, none as graceful while their attacks were wild and careless. Jace and Alec gave their rivals no opportunities to regroup, immediately diving for the kill once they were within their perimeter.

It was almost as if the pair of parabatai had never left each other's side, much less spent the last eight years separated from each other.

In no time at all, they made an unstoppable powerhouse, efficiently dominating the battlefield of their lesser opponents.

* * *

On the balcony, Clary sat stiffly, holding her breath and digging her nails into her brother's arm as she watched the bloodbath unravel in the arena. Her emerald eyes followed the tan, lean gladiator with the full-visor helmet intently as he moved in an elegant dance against his attackers. She was certain, despite not having seen his face, that the gladiator was the one she'd met at the market yesterday— _Shadowhunter_ , as he had introduced himself.

Clary had always resented watching these gladiators killing one another, but for once, she found herself silently rooting for _him._

She watched, entranced, as he tirelessly deflected attack after attack from the prisoners who charged at him, striking them in their midsections and slashing their necks decisively.

She let out a sharp gasp, fighting the bile from rising in her throat as one of the prisoners came close to piercing him in his chest, and he gracefully leaped back, the sword only merely grazing his armor. He flipped forward, over his opponent and just as he landed, he swiftly slew the man's head off.

* * *

As the man's decapitated form fell to the ground, Jace's eyes alerted him to Alec's current predicament; he was backed up against the pillar, his sword abandoned on the ground a few feet away from him, as three other prisoners cornered him.

Reacting purely on instinct, Jace sprinted towards his parabatai with lightning speed. He rebounded off the pillar, releasing a spear onto one of the prisoners with blinding accuracy that the bloodied tip came protruding through his victim's chest. Then with the ferocity of a lion, he knocked down another prisoner to the ground.

The latter struggled, cursing and throwing frantic punches in Jace's direction, all of which did nothing to impede his advance. He quickly overpowered his opponent by rolling on top of him and ramming his sword into his throat, spraying blood all over his helmet.

Now one against one, Alec wasted no time in wrapping the long chains around the remaining prisoner's neck. He jumped onto latter's back, putting his full weight onto him as his arms encased him in a vicious headlock, effectively cutting off the supply of oxygen to his lungs. With a final swift flick of his wrist, he snapped the incapacitated prisoner's neck, grinning as his victim's body collapsed to the ground in an unmoving heap.

Before long, the number of Idrisian prisoners began to dwindle drastically, and the remaining gladiators—thirteen of them—stood tall against four of the surviving prisoners.

Realizing that they were vastly outnumbered, the prisoners chose to drop their swords, and raised their hands in surrender.

Jace and Alec turned to each other at the same time, grinning devilishly at their victory as the final horn blew to announce the conclusion of the match.

Valentine rose from his seat, his arms raised as the spectators roared in applause for the gladiators. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the gladiators of the final gladiator games!" He proclaimed, his grin widening as the cheering intensified.

"My gladiators, I congratulate you on your valiant efforts of defeating the Idrisian prisoners-of-war. It is with great pleasure that I formally extend my invitation to you, to grace the final games with the display of your impressive skills of combat…like the _true warriors_ that you are," Valentine said, smiling proudly at the gladiators as if they were his offspring and he had played a hand in their success.

Jace didn't fight his primary urge to scoff at the man. He knew better, after all. Valentine was a false and pretentious man, a deceiver— _a hypocrite_. He was obviously sucking up to the crowd, manipulating them into thinking that he cared for the gladiators. What an actor. _An invitation!_ As if the gladiators had a choice on whether they showed up to the final games or not.

Beside him, Alec rolled his eyes. "It is with great pleasure that I formally extend my invitation to you…" He mocked Valentine in a deep voice, causing Jace to chuckle.

"Well, we accept his invitation…to kiss our asses," he muttered.

As the guards reemerged to unchain the surviving gladiators from the pillar, Jace reluctantly relinquished his sword, and watched as the other four prisoners were escorted back to their cells. They were no different from the gladiators, he thought, feeling slightly sympathetic. They were all prisoners of the arena. Prisoners of Valentine.

"Let's go, Jace," Alec nudged him towards the tunnel where they had entered from, his hand firmly grasped on Jace's shoulder.

Against his will, Jace glanced up at the dais, only to find the beautiful princess already eyeing him, her face slightly paler than usual and her hand clutching her brother's like a lifeline. She gave him a nervous smile, which he returned with an almost imperceptible nod.

Jace swallowed. Was it possible that she really recognized him? Even with the helmet on?

Choosing to ignore the flutter of butterflies in his stomach at that thought, Jace walked briskly towards the entrance, away from the crowd, away from Valentine, and away from Clary.

* * *

"Well, that was certainly a good show we put up there," Alec said as they dug into their dinner. Warm bread with chicken soup and wine were served that night, as celebration for the gladiators who qualified for the final games.

"It certainly was. I mean, come on, with my amazing skills, why wouldn't it be?" Jace chuckled, playfully bumping his shoulder against Alec, who was seated to his left.

"Since when did you two become so chummy-chummy?" The olive-skinned boy, Jordan, asked, his eyebrow quirked in amusement.

Will made a sound in agreement. "Just yesterday you two were at each other's throats like sworn enemies," he added in between mouthfuls of bread.

Jace and Alec shared a secret glance, before turning to smirk at the other gladiators. "Well," the golden-haired boy drawled, "Let's just say, that in the heat of the battle, we decided to set our differences aside and unite against the common enemy."

"Besides," Alec cut in, throwing Jace a wink, "I came to realize that the idiot was more useful than he was made out to be. Cocky, but useful. We gladiators have to stick together, after all."

"Hear, hear!" Several voices echoed his statement, and raised their cups of wine for a toast.

Jace smiled and brought the rim of his cup to his lips, but unlike the rest of the gladiators who eagerly chugged down the alcohol, he didn't even take a sip. There were several things in life that Jace had no interest in partaking; drinking was one of them.

"You're not going to drink that, are you?" Alec asked, nudging his head towards Jace's cup.

"I don't drink," he answered flatly.

"Lightweight?"

"No," Jace narrowed his eyes at him defensively. "I just don't."

Alec opened his mouth, probably to shoot him with a sarcastic comeback, when Emil let out a shrill whistle, ceasing all opportunities of a private conversation. The gladiators looked up from their meals, sending scowls in the direction of their warden. Jace suspected that none of them liked the man very much. Neither did he.

"Evening, gladiators," Emil said, a trace of slur in his voice. "Hope you're enjoyin' your dinner so far." He sniffled loudly and rubbed his nose with the corner of his sleeve, oblivious to the looks of disgust that were shot his way. For a man with a considerably reputable position, it was baffling how little hygiene sense he had.

"Now, as you all know, the games are three months away from today. But until the big day comes, you will train as you usually do, for eight hours each day. And on top of that, you will also be expected to report for your nightly slave duties, which will be delegated to you shortly," Emil said, glancing down at his clipboard.

Jace dropped his head to the table and groaned loudly. _Slave duties?_ As far as he was concerned, he had _never_ had to perform slave duties before. What the hell were slave duties like anyway?

Heaven forbid he had to be assigned to kitchen duties or laundry work. He shivered at the thought of being reduced to mundane womanly tasks. That would not be good for his delicate ego, especially if he were to be forced to wear a pink, frilly apron!

"Shadowhunter," Emil called. Jace lifted his head from the table and leveled Emil with a steady look. "You will report to the stables on the palace grounds of Idris, and assist in managing the royal horses. Your duties will start tomorrow night, at eight. A servant boy, Simon Lewis, will be there to walk you through your duties and he will be held accountable for you, understood?"

Jace nodded and exhaled a sigh of relief. At least he liked horses. _Maybe it won't be that bad_ , he thought.

"Well, have fun cleaning up manure, Jace," Alec whispered, jabbing his elbow into Jace's ribs playfully.

Jace paled slightly. "What? You mean I have to clear stinky horse poop?"

Alec smiled deviously, no doubt enjoying his best friend's discomfort.

"What the hell are your duties then?" He demanded, narrowing his eyes at Alec resentfully.

"Well, unlike _you_ , I've been assigned as an assistant to the royal physician, Magnus Bane. My duties are simple—running errands, and making sure the doctor's supplies are always in stock, you know, basically anything that does not involve animal dung," Alec said smugly, causing Jace to scowl enviously in return.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, letting slip a few choice words at his predicament. When all of this was over, Jace was going to make sure he smothered Valentine's face with stinky horse poop.

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 **A/N: And...scene! If you're an old reader, you'd probably realize that I've added some new stuff there, like the flashback between Jace and Alec. I thought it would be adorable to explore them as kids, hence I wrote that bit in!**

 **I would like to take this time to give a shoutout to a fellow FF reader and writer _promisesofthefuture_ for writing me probably one of the sweetest PMs I've ever received! Also, much love to my other returning old readers whom I have reconnected with via PM: _Aubrey Kelly, CMLangdon, A-Glittering-Star-Night, FrenchBenzo, Creativedesigns, Jling,_ and _Laurinis_! I'm so glad to be returning to this writing journey with the same readers I started out with and who had supported me then. I love each and every one of you so much!**

 **And to new readers, welcome :)**


	6. Chapter 5: Of Duties & Dilemmas

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5: OF DUTIES AND DILEMMAS**

 **September 5, 508**

"Here we are," Michael said as they came to the long-dreaded stop outside the royal stables.

Jace glanced up, taking in the appearance of the stables. It still looked the same as when his father first had it remodeled, from its crystal domed-roof and serpentine marble walls, down to the very last intricate engraving that graced the green structure. The interior itself comprised of twenty stalls made from heart pine and steel, capable of housing twenty adult horses, as well as a tack-room and grooming area for the equines.

Jace sighed as he folded his arms across his chest defiantly. "I still don't understand why I have to do slave duties. I'm _your_ gladiator, not theirs," he complained. "Besides, what if I run into Valentine?"

"Well Jace, this is Idris, so whether you're my gladiator or not, you are expected to pull your own weight and do your fair share of work around here," Michael replied patiently. "And as for Valentine, you needn't worry about bumping into him. I'm quite certain he's rather preoccupied with his duties of running the kingdom to be checking up on slaves. So unless you do something reckless to attract his attention, you should be able to make it out of here every night unscathed."

"Still—"

"Enough, Shadowhunter,"Michael interrupted firmly. "I do not wish to hear any more of your protests. Go report to the servant Simon Lewis. I will be back for you at midnight to take you back to the cells," he said, his tone dismissive.

Letting out a deliberately dramatic sigh to convey his obvious displeasure, Jace stomped into the stables as Michael took off to tend to his own affairs.

His hands involuntarily clenched into fists the moment he stepped inside, something about the _air_ of being inside the stables feeling different, much like it had been back at _Taki's_. He shook his head, trying to shove the impending onslaught of memories away.

Fleetingly, it struck him as odd that there were no sentries to mind the stables, especially knowing that someone like him—a _gladiator_ —would be around. Valentine must either be too trusting, or had a misplaced sense of responsibility when it came to security; a thief could have as easily snuck in and stolen the horses, or a rogue set fire to the stables.

But Jace wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was a pleasant change of environment, he supposed, to not have guards around and watching his every move.

Swallowing deeply, he raised his head and began eyeing his surroundings, the irritation that he'd felt only moments ago slipped away, replaced by wistfulness. He hated to admit it, but part of the reason why he had been so reluctant about having to perform his duties at the royal stables was because he'd been afraid to confront _this_ —the unfathomable secret longing to be as close as home as possible.

But it wasn't his home anymore now, was it? Valentine had snatched it all away and made it _his_. _His_ kingdom. _His_ palace. _His_ horses. Not Jace's.

And it felt like a bitter slap to his own face, knowing that he was merely an outsider looking in on everything that used to belong to his family. It felt a thousand times worse knowing that he was doing it all alone.

 _When will it ever get easier?_ Jace closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath through his nose. It irked him that no matter how much time had passed, on the inside, he was still no different than the ten-year-old boy who had lost his mother and father that night.

Standing in the stables only made it infinitely harder. There were just so many things there that left him gripping with painful reminders, like rubbing salt into a freshly reopened wound.

As he looked up, he couldn't help but imagine his mother standing at one of the horses' stalls just a couple feet away from him, her golden eyes shining with wonderment as she brushed the horse's silky mane. She didn't need to speak to earn the horse's favor. Just the way she presented herself, confident and genial, was enough to earn its trust.

Without realizing it, Jace found his feet trudging forward towards the horse's stall, as the apparition of his mother—the one he remembered from his memories—led the horse out of its stall by its reins. He stopped in his tracks as his father suddenly materialized from behind her, startling her as he encased her into a playful but loving embrace.

"Where is my beloved horse whisperer going without me?" Jace could practically hear the smirk in Stephen's voice as he teased his mother. Celine pretended to huff as she squirmed about in his unrelenting grasp, but the amused smile on her face was clear. "You weren't planning on leaving me and run straight into the arms of a secret lover, were you?"

"You're supposed to be minding our son," Celine retorted as she swiveled around in her husband's arms, an eyebrow raised in faux annoyance. She tried to pry his fingers away from her waist but gave up when her attempts seemingly proved to be in vain. "Where is Jace, anyway? Please don't tell me you left him alone with the cat. You know how those two can get when they're left unattended. Just last week I left them in the library for _five minutes_ —and I came back to Jace lying on top of Church and the cat struggling to get out from underneath him!"

Stephen rolled his eyes affectionately and smiled. "You worry too much, sweetheart. Besides, Jace is asleep in his room," he said. "Poor boy wore himself out while reading. I gave him one of those simpler books but he insisted on having something more _challenging_."

"And what exactly would that be?" Celine looked apprehensive.

"Plato—Don't even ask."

"Of all things, he chose to read philosophy?" She gaped. "He's only four!"

Stephen shrugged his shoulders in response. "I couldn't exactly say no to him. He's a remarkably astute four-year-old. Brilliant like his father." He grinned down cheekily at Celine. "And stubborn…like his mother. A very deadly combination, if you ask me." Unsurprisingly, he drew Celine in closer and pressed his mouth against hers for a kiss. The latter made a sound of protest at first but eventually gave in, as she usually did, melting into his touch.

Unlike most other times, Jace couldn't help but smile at the sight of them, both so genuinely in love that they were almost inseparable. As often as he pretended to scowl at their public romantic exchanges, he knew that he hoped for the same thing one day, too.

He wanted what his parents had. He wanted to be able to look at a woman— _just one_ —the way his father looked at his mother, like she was his entire world.

 _I'm willing to wager you already have a lady in mind,_ His father's voice echoed teasingly in his mind.

As the thought occurred to him, Jace saw a flash of red hair framing a delicate, porcelain face and a pair of gleaming emerald green eyes. A light dotting of freckles decorated her button nose, barely discernable to the naked eye, and she had the softest, pink lips he had ever seen. So kissable and utterly irresistable, especially when she smiled at him the way she did—

A throat clearing alerted him to the presence of another person in the stables, and Jace started, as if rudely awakened from a dream.

He threw a quick glance at the spot where his parents had stood, only to find it empty and void. _Like my soul_ , he thought belatedly, closing his eyes in bitter disappointment.

As a shuffle of approaching feet drew closer, Jace's spine straightened and his muscles tensed. His golden eyes, which only mere moments ago were glazed over with vulnerability, were now veiled by a practiced mask of coldness and indifference.

In his place was no longer Jace Herondale, but 'Shadowhunter', a gladiator who was both fearless and feared by others.

Within his periphery, Jace noticed a lanky, weasel-like teenager emerging from one of the horses' stalls and moving towards him. He narrowed his eyes in cold scrutiny. The boy was tall (though not nearly as tall as him), with curly brown hair and wore a pair of rounded spectacles. His attire was plain and shabby, as was expected of most servants, and a soiled towel hung from around his neck. It was obvious to anyone that he was far from a threat, but that didn't make Jace relax from his defensive stance.

"Uh, hi…" The boy stuttered, stumbling to a somewhat awkward stop when Jace turned around to face him. His chocolate-brown eyes instantly misted over with a look Jace recognized to be fear—probably due to the sight of his intimidating physique.

His suspicions were confirmed when the boy quickly dropped his gaze to the ground and let out a nervous cough.

"Simon Lewis," he said weakly, thrusting a hand towards himself. "Y-you must be the gladiator I'm supposed to be in c-charge of." He hesitantly glanced at Jace, the bobbing movement of his Adam's apple noticeable in his throat.

Jace wanted to laugh at what a pathetic joke he was. He wondered why Emil ever thought it was a good idea to leave a gladiator—and one of his repute, at that—in the care of someone so…inferior. He reckoned that this Simon would no sooner piss himself if he so dared to look him straight in the eye. What did Emil think would happen—or _wouldn't_ happen—if Jace were to suddenly go on a rampage?

Granted, Michael was supposed to be supervising him, but _still_ …

He swore that Valentine's people were all a bunch of incompetent idiots—with Valentine being the chief idiot.

"Yes, that's me. They call me Shadowhunter," Jace said tersely.

Simon looked around the stables nervously. Jace could tell that he was trying hard to be discreet but the franticness behind his movements easily gave him away.

"Are you expecting someone?" He quipped.

"Um," Simon turned his attention to Jace, but quickly dropped his eye contact when he found the gladiator's intense glare already trained on him. "Where's your guard?"

"My guard?" Jace pretended to think long and hard, just for the sake of prolonging Simon's unease. "Ah, you mean my master?" He asked, referring to Michael.

"Uh, yes." Simon looked confused but nodded. "Wait…you're not from around here?"

 _Yes._ "No," Jace smoothly lied. "I'm here on tour with my master. I reckon we'll be staying till the end of the final games this year, so you'll be seeing me around a lot." He flashed Simon his winning smile—sarcastic but attractive all the same. "Though I can't say the same for my master. He comes and goes as he pleases… A little hard to tell with him."

"But that's—"

"Against the rules?" Jace finished. "My master doesn't really care. He trusts me enough to know that I won't go rogue and kill anybody I'm not supposed to," he gave Simon a pointed look. "But if you insist on him being present, I'm certain you'll be able to locate him in one of the shady bars here. He won't be too pleased though. The man likes his spirits… He can be an angry one if you take him away from his bottle."

Simon's eyes widened a fraction. "Why are you telling me all of this? Aren't you—"

Jace sighed. "If you ask me if I'm afraid that you'll report me to the 'higher authorities'"—he made a gesture as if to form quotation marks in the air—"then my answer is 'no'. Very few things scare me. Of course, you can tell on me all you like, but I hardly think that _they_ would care. I mean," he motioned to the relatively vacant stables, "If said higher authorities were actually thorough, I shouldn't even need my master around to keep an eye on me. By strict definition of 'thorough', there _would_ be actual guards around to stand watch regardless of whether there is a _threat_."

"Okay," Simon gulped slowly. "You made your point. I… I w-won't report you—or your master. As long as…as long as you do as you're t-told."

"Really?" Jace perked up in a display of fake enthusiasm. "Oh, I am so very grateful to you, Simon. See, if you did tell on me, I can promise you that I won't be very nice. Nobody likes a tattletale…least of all us gladiators."

Simon's flinch was much more subtle this time but Jace caught it easily. "Oh, come on. You can't honestly be scared of me, aren't you?" He jibed in a sharp tone as he strode up to the boy, their faces only centimeters apart.

Feeling rattled by their abruptly close proximity, Simon scrambled backwards hurriedly, the movement sending him colliding into a round bale of hay. As he flailed his arms frantically—almost like an ostrich making a desperate attempt at flight in the _reverse_ direction—he ended up walking right into his next problem: an empty rusty bucket.

In a matter of seconds, Simon had landed awkwardly on his butt, the thunderous impact of his fall causing his glasses to be knocked off his nose and onto the floor, sliding to a stop—right by Jace's boot-clad feet.

A vision-impaired Simon began to swear profusely underneath his breath.

Jace stifled his laughter and watched in complete mirth as the servant boy began to fumble around for his glasses. His hands were trembling furiously and his forehead was coated in a thick sheen of sweat.

"You need a little help there, buddy? I'd be more than happy to lend you a hand," Jace said, his voice colored with barely concealed amusement.

"N-no t-thanks! I-I've got it!" Simon's voice went a key higher than what Jace deemed was the 'normal' teenage boy's vocal range.

A wider grin stretched across his face as Simon's movements grew increasingly frantic and his face turned white with desperation. He was just too _easy_.

Deciding that he was far from done with messing around, Jace folded his arms across his chest and resumed his earlier menacing stance—chest puffed out, eyes narrowed murderously. _This is growing to be more fun than I thought,_ he smirked to himself.

Once Simon had finally retrieved his glasses, he hastily repositioned them onto the crook of his nose, and his face instantaneously drained of color when he saw Jace towering over him, a dangerous glint in his golden eyes. A terrified yelp escaped him, and he clambered backwards frantically, his brown eyes wide with panic when his back met a dead end.

Jace let out a haughty laugh at the petrified look on the boy's face. "You're scared of me, aren't you?" He expressed his question as if it were a statement of fact.

"N-no, I-I'm not scared," Simon replied, too quickly to be telling the truth. Jace raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm just flustered—and um, a little jumpy—That's all."

"Hmm, whatever you say, Lewis," Jace said, taking another step closer to the servant. His mouth involuntarily curled into a crooked grin when the boy flinched. "Oh, stop looking so terrified," he remarked at Simon's wide-eyed, drained face. "You look like you're about to pass out. Not a good idea, you ask me. You never know where or in what state you'll wake up in…or if you'll _ever_ wake up."

"What?!"

Jace sighed, exasperated this time. His mood was quickly shifting, as was his mercurial temperament. "I'm not going to kill you—or even hurt you, for that matter," he said, sobering from his juvenile teasing. "I don't know what your exact perception of gladiators is like, but I can take a wild guess. You probably think that we're a bunch of vile animals who would kill without thought or reason. Well, you're wrong. If I were, neither of us would be here right now. Besides, I have neither the compulsion nor motive to kill a _boy_ who can't even defend himself. That's just plain cowardice and a waste of time."

Simon still looked wary but Jace could tell that his words, though insulting and spiteful, had reassured him, and to an extent, allowed him to feel a semblance of relief. "Thank you?" He said, obviously having no idea of how else to respond.

Jace gave him a curt nod then turned away, a little more than annoyed by the fact that he had bothered to explain himself to _Simon_. Why did he even do that anyway? He could have just left the boy and his overactive imagination be, but instead he'd allowed his somewhat altruistic self to step in and put the former's worries to ease.

 _Because you hate it when people think so lowly of you_ , his subconscious reasoned. _You hate it when people judge you when they know next to nothing about you._

Jace shook his head. Normally, he wouldn't have cared. But his encounter with Clary and Max (and the servant girl whose name he failed to remember) in the market had somehow changed his indifference.

Regrettably, he _did_ care, he realized. He just hadn't had the energy to act upon it until now.

As he busied himself with inspecting the stalls, his eyebrows furrowed a little in reminder that he actually had a job to do there. Stalling was only proving to be counterproductive… He needed something to occupy him at least.

"So," Jace drawled, "What _exactly_ do I have to do?" He asked, seemingly nonchalant as he picked at a loose thread on his tunic.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Simon fidgeted from where he stood, as if he were debating on whether it was safe to come any closer.

"Uh, nothing much," the brown-haired boy said. He let out a laugh, but it sounded awkward and forced. "Just make sure all the stables are clean, the horses are well brushed and fed and so on. It's simple, really."

Jace nodded, purposely continuing to make Simon uneasy by glaring at him. He decided that even though he'd made it clear that he wouldn't hurt Simon, he refused to relinquish the opportunity to make him squirm. It amused him far too much.

But before he could even come up with a smart comment, another voice beat him to it. The familiarity of the owner's voice—despite Jace having heard it only _one_ other time—caused his heart to pound a foreign erratic pace…so fast, in fact, that his head throbbed from the sudden rush of blood. _Why is it beating so fast?_ He wondered. _This isn't normal. It isn't supposed to beat this fast._ His hand twitched and he fought against the urge to claw his hand through his chest. _Slow down—Please._

"Simon!" Clary called in a cheerful tone as she raced into the stables and carelessly flung herself at the rat— _er,_ Simon. A genuine smile lit up the servant boy's face as he clumsily caught her and hugged her to his chest.

"Hey, Clary," Simon replied, sounding completely casual and relaxed—a complete switch as opposed to when he was speaking with Jace.

"Oh, how I've missed you, Simon. I'm terribly sorry I haven't seen you in a while. My father's been completely overbearing lately, making me sit through a bunch of boring etiquette lessons and what-not," Clary groaned as she tightened their embrace.

A sudden suffocated feeling enveloped Jace's chest, and his breaths came out in slightly harsh puffs. He turned away, scowling at the 'intimate' scene. He couldn't explain it, but somehow it just didn't feel right, watching them hold each other like that. And Simon… Jace didn't like how Simon was looking at Clary, much less the way he was touching her _._ It was so obvious that he was infatuated—or had lingering feelings of infatuation—with her. But then again, who wouldn't be smitten by Clary? He thought begrudgingly. Any man could see that she was beautiful and kind and _perfect_ in every other way.

Jace hated to admit it, but the feelings that were boiling inside of him felt strange, and overwhelmingly unfamiliar. _I can't_ — _I don't like her… do I?_

"I swear, Simon, he's trying to rule my life. He keeps going on and on with, 'Clarissa, you need to learn to be a proper lady. How do you expect a man to want you as his wife if you're constantly running around like a child, making a fool out of yourself?'" Clary rolled her eyes and made an irritated noise at the back of her throat. "Seriously, Simon, I need you to save me from him. I was _this close_ from poking my eyes out with a fork at the dining table just now," she said, pinching the air between her thumb and forefinger.

Unable to hold back his amusement at the princess's words, Jace let out a loud chortle, instantly rupturing the bubble of obliviousness between the two friends. There was genuine mirth in his laughter, of course, but at the same time, a comparable amount of bitterness.

Clary swiveled around and inhaled sharply. From the look on her face, Jace could tell that he was probably one of the last people she'd expected to run into at the stables.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with an air of fake sincerity. He placed a hand over his heart, as if to convey his deepest apologies. "Don't let me interrupt this _romantic_ reunion. Carry on! I just couldn't help but feel amused by your, um, 'request' of asking him to save you from your father. Yes, he certainly looks capable of holding his own in a fight with his gangly frame," he said, his cynicism coming across as a biting insult.

Simon jumped away and looked down at his feet, blushing furiously. "I, uh, I better go, Clary. I just remembered that I have some other chores I need to do. I'll see you again—soon." He turned to Jace, swallowing. "I'll be back to see you off later," he rushed out, then scurried off before either of them—or more likely, _Clary_ —could even protest.

"Si-mon…" Clary let out a deep sigh. Her eyebrows pinched together into a frown as she stared after her friend's quickly retreating figure.

 _What a coward,_ Jace thought absentmindedly, _leaving the princess in the company of a gladiator. I could_ _kill her just as easily and it would be on his conscience…_

"Look at what you've done!" Clary's angry voice interrupted his quiet musings.

He looked up at her, slightly startled by her outburst. She was scowling at him, her emerald green eyes alight with renewed chagrin. Jace raised an eyebrow at her, reminded of how feisty she had been in the market the day they first met—before his screw-up. The way she was glaring at him now showed no trace of fear or wariness. She just looked angry.

"You've scared him off—You know, just because you're bigger than him, it doesn't give you the right to make fun of my friend!"

Jace's eyes widened mockingly. "Oh, no? Forgive me, Milady. I would have guessed that after my amazing display of fighting skills yesterday, I'd have already earned my bragging rights. And by the way, just out of pure _curiosity_ , do you always throw yourself at your servants like that?" He asked, attempting to sound standoffish as he strolled towards one of the horses' stalls.

He stifled a gasp when he came face-to-face with a very familiar brown steed—Wayfarer. He had been Jace's horse, a gift from his father when he was four.

"Not that it's any of your business," Clary said, her eyes undoubtedly narrowed at his back, "but Simon just so happens to be my best friend—And I don't _need_ anyone's permission to hug my best friend. Besides, w-what are _you_ doing here anyway?"

Jace chuckled as Wayfarer nuzzled his head against his neck and let out an affable neigh. To anyone who didn't know any better about horses, the act would have seemed inconsequential. But Jace happened to know better. Wayfarer was only proving that he recognized _him_ , his owner. It thrilled Jace more than he was willing to show.

"Haven't you been informed, Milady? Apparently, I've been assigned to mind the stables here every night," Jace said, his honey eyes still trained on the horse. His answer seemed to have pacified her as her retorts momentarily ceased, allowing a comfortable silence to to settle over them.

Jace had almost forgotten about Clary's presence when she spoke up again. "That's my horse. Wayfarer," she said, her voice soft with awe and tinge of disbelief.

The corner of Jace's lips twitched into a small simper. _I know_ , he wanted to say. _And correction—he's_ my _horse._ He didn't think it would go over very well though, so he kept his mouth shut.

"How do you do that?" Clary asked, or more appropriately, whispered. By reflex, Jace's body stiffened and the hairs on the back of his neck stood when he felt her approach him, but he forced himself to relax. This was Clary, he told himself. She was harmless. "He's never liked strangers. It took a long time before he even warmed up to me, and even then, he's still wary of me…" She trailed off. She didn't sound jealous at all, just curious.

Jace shrugged. "I don't know," he said, his voice surprisingly curt. He continued to brush Wayfarer's mane with his hand, his eyes gleaming with a tender look he usually reserved for his family.

Wayfarer _was_ his family, he realized—or the last form of connection he had to them, to his old life. He leaned forward and gently touched his head to the horse's.

"Such a good boy," the whisper passed his lips before he could stop it.

By Clary's audible intake of breath, Jace knew that she had heard him. He swallowed as he pulled away from Wayfarer, his hands still cupping the sides of the horse's face. He saw himself reflected in the horse's dark eyes—the vulnerability that had been present in him as a little boy. He quickly shut it off, wiping his face into a blank slate.

Clary was still staring at him, _judging_ him, he could feel it.

So without looking up, he drawled, "You know, it's rather rude to stare." Letting go of Wayfarer, he turned around to face her, folding his arms across his chest and smirking cockily. "I would have expected that someone of royalty like you to know some manners. Especially when you're always so quick to point out that mine are _lacking_."

Clary blinked rapidly as she stared at him, looking slightly affronted by his remark. "Well, pardon me, _kind sir_ , for upsetting you with my staring," she retorted sarcastically, causing Jace's smirk to widen. He waved his hand in a show of careless flippancy.

"Apology accepted, your Highness," Jace said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "May I ask why were you staring at me? Apart from my charmingly good looks, of course."

Clary rolled her eyes before wringing her hands again, her expression suddenly apprehensive. "It's just that—I-I…" she stammered, as if unsure of how to verbalize her thoughts. She scratched the back of her neck and knitted her brows into a frown; Jace found himself mimicking the latter action. What was it that she wanted to say that was just so…hard? "It's just that I never thought someone like you could ever be so kind to animals," she rushed out before dropping her gaze just as quickly.

A grim look passed over Jace's face at her words, disappointment and hurt flashing in his eyes. Whether it was her intention or not, the fact that Clary even considered the idea cut him. "Someone like me?" His voice was low, calculative. "What do you mean by that? Someone like me?" He questioned darkly, only to be met with silence.

"You mean a killer?" Jace snarled, the muscle in his jaw twitching with barely restrained anger. Clary kept quiet, her gaze suddenly fixated on the grout lines of the floor. _SAY SOMETHING! At least look at me!_ He thought agitatedly. "Sounds awfully judgmental, don't you think? Sorry to disappoint your _ignorant_ expectations, Princess, but apparently, killers can be compassionate and loving towards animals," he gritted out in between clenched teeth.

Clary flinched but still said nothing.

 _Does she really think that lowly of me?_ Despite his anger, Jace stared Clary, pleading with her to tell him that he was wrong about his assumption, but the tell-tale blush on her cheeks said otherwise. God, he had never realized until now just how much he'd _wanted_ her to be different. But she proved him that once again, he was wrong.

He knew that there existed a certain stigma about gladiators, that the image they wore was like a double-edged sword. The best of them were revered, but most of them feared. Killers. Murderers. Barbarians. Those were the names that every gladiator had been forced to carry the moment they stepped foot into the arena.

How had he been so stupid to think that Clary was an exception? To think that she didn't see him as any of those things regardless of his notoriety?

Without blinking, he said, his voice suddenly weighed down by sadness, "You know, you're an awful lot like your father." Clary's head snapped up at his comment, a flicker of anger reigniting in her green eyes. "You treat us gladiators like we're toys, as though we're incapable of feeling things."

"How dare you! I am _nothing_ like my father," she retorted in a clipped tone, her hands fisting the sides of her gown. "How would you even know how my father is anyway? You don't know anything! And to reiterate my previous statement, in case you didn't manage to absorb anything in that infuriatingly large, pompous, egotistical head of yours, I am NOTHING like my father!"

Jace smirked at the rise he got out of her. It was better than the silence. "Well, that makes perfect sense. Now that I think of it, you're right. You're nothing at all like your father," he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, he is into cross-dressing, is short like a midget and has your crazy red hair. Though, if he were, I can't imagine that your father would look anywhere nearly as beautiful as you!" He said with a laugh.

Clary's cheeks flushed as she stared open-mouthed at him, her expression betraying the amount of surprise she felt by his comeback. "What?"

"What?" He echoed, somewhat irritatedly.

Clary frowned again. "You…you said…you said I was…" She shook her head and looked down, blushing furiously. "Never mind."

At the sound of her meek, unsure voice, Jace's eyes widened as he realized, a little too late, that he hadn't just insulted her, but incidentally complimented her, too. _Beautiful._ Regardless of how sarcastic he'd made it sound, he had meant it.

She was beautiful in his eyes…he'd known it since the first moment he laid eyes on her. He just hadn't wanted to admit it out loud.

It probably wasn't a big deal to anyone else, but it was to Jace. Never once in the last two years, despite the number of girls who had flaunted their goods in his direction, had he ever felt any sort of attraction towards them. The teeniest bit of lust was quickly extinguished before it could grow into something uncontainable and reckless.

Clary had done absolutely nothing—she dressed decently, she didn't tease him. On the contrary, she said things to piss him off—and yet, he still found her attractive. No, wait—he found her _beautiful_! Beautiful was never a word he had used to think of in relation to other women—'pretty' perhaps, but never 'beautiful'.

He didn't need to be a sappy romantic to know the difference between those two words; to understand the weight that the latter held. God, he was rambling. Was he overreacting?

"I…"

Before Jace could formulate a decent response, this time, an unfamiliar but distinctly male voice cut him off. "Clary! Clare-bear!" The voice called.

Jace and Clary turned in the direction of the voice's owner as a man came into view. The moment he spotted a head of white-blond hair, his jaw automatically clenched and his body moved to accommodate a fighting stance.

 _Valentine_ was the first name that rushed to mind, followed by another word: _Kill_.

But as his gaze zoomed in on the man's face, he realized that it wasn't Valentine, but the young man whom he had seen holding Clary's hand yesterday. He relaxed his fists but kept his watchful stance; he knew better than to let himself go completely off-guard.

"Baby sister! There you are, Clare-bear!" The man exclaimed, affection obvious in his tone.

There was a flash of red as Clary took off running into the man's arms. He swung her off her feet and held her as if he hadn't seen her in days, chuckling loudly.

"Jon, enough! Put me down already, you big buffoon!" Clary giggled as she delivered several half-hearted smacks to her brother's shoulder. When he finally relented, she pulled away from him with a wide smile. "I missed you at dinner," she said before narrowing her eyes into pointed slits. "You were cruel for leaving me alone with Father. I barely made it past the entrée with his insufferable droning. Where were you anyway?"

The man—Jon—had the tact to look apologetic, but shrugged nonetheless. "Out," was his noncommital response. "With some friends," he elaborated when Clary pinched his arm.

"Oh." Clary's eyes widened as she placed a hand on her chest. "You have friends?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "As hard as it is for you to believe, Clarissa, yes, I do have friends," he said, mimicking his sister's gesture by placing a hand over his heart. "It hurts that you would think otherwise. Many would vie for the mere pleasure of my company."

"Would any of these companions of yours by any chance be women?"

Jon smirked. "Perhaps…" he drawled. "But that's not why I'm here. Father has summoned your presence in the throne room. He needs to speak with you immediately on some 'very pressing matters that cannot be put off any longer'." He imitated his father's deep voice, causing Clary to chuckle, then frown a little in worry.

"Did he tell you what it was about?" She asked, her green eyes gleaming wide and innocent like a child's.

Her brother shrugged. "Don't know. Didn't bother to ask him. Come on!" He grasped her tiny hand into his and pulled, the same nonchalant and carefree expression on his face.

"I don't want to go!" Clary whined. Her lips puckered into a pout as she gave her older brother a pleading, puppy dog face. "Please, _Jonny_ …don't make me go."

Jace cracked a smile at the princess's uncharacteristic behavior. Save for what little brotherly relationship he had with Alec, he had never had the opportunity of having any real siblings of his own, so watching Clary and her brother was nothing short of interesting to him. Unfortunately, his amusement didn't last, his smile wavering as a long-forgotten memory invaded his mind.

 _"I want a baby brother, Mommy. Pleaseee," Jace tugged relentlessly on his mother's sleeve, his golden eyes drawn into a pleading puppy dog look. At five years old, he was already a mastermind of manipulation, his astonishingly good looks, combined with his innocent high-pitched voice, enough to make just about anyone cave into his whims._

 _Celine paled a little at his request and gave him a weak smile. "A baby brother?" She asked. Jace nodded with vigor and his eyes widened expectantly, as if saying that he wanted a brother could effectively conjure up another Herondale boy on the spot. "Why a brother? Why not a sister?" She asked again._

 _Jace frowned at his mother. He didn't know how to answer her question, and even if he did, he didn't want to. It was a dumb question, he thought. Why on earth would he want a sister? Alec had a sister and she was yucky! "Baby brother," he repeated in an insistent tone. "No sister."_

 _Celine gave him a genuine smile this time. "Fine. I'll talk to your daddy. But no promises," she said before planting a kiss on his cheek and tucking him into bed._

 _The morning that followed had been an equally joyful one; he remembered asking his father instead if he could have a brother, to which Stephen had good-naturedly replied—with a coy wink to his wife: "We shall see."_

 _Two months later, his parents announced that his mother was with child, but sadly, her pregnancy hadn't lasted very long. Jace was playing with Alec in the garden, under his mother's supervision, when she suddenly doubled over, cried out in pain—and bled._

 _The rest of it went by in no more than a blur. He remembered Alec running off to find his father and the latter carrying his mother off, all the while barking frantic orders at his men to get ahold of the royal physician._

 _There were many tears that followed after that—his parents being told that his mother was having a miscarriage and that she could never bear anymore children._

 _At the time, Jace didn't understand what was going on. All he knew was the feeling of disappointment when he was told that his brother would never come._

 _Eventually, Celine sat him down and said, "We can't argue with God's plan, Jace." He looked at her wide-eyed, and with a very distinct pout on his face. "I'm sorry I can't give you a brother, but it just wasn't meant to be. At least I already have my little boy right here. You'll be Mommy's little boy forever, right?"_

 _The look she gave him was enough to make his little heart break, so he did the only thing good boys did—he tried to make his mother happy. "Yes, Mommy." Jace cuddled into her side and stayed with her like that for the rest of the night. He didn't liked it when his mother called him "little", but at the moment, he'd do anything to make her feel better._

"Clarissa Adele Morgenstern," Jonathan admonished jokingly, his voice bringing Jace out of his gloomy trance. "You move your cute, little derrière this instant! I do not approve of this child-like behavior. You are almost sixteen years old and I expect you to observe the attitude of a proper lady!" He waggled his finger in front of his sister's face warningly, but instead of obeying him, Clary's pout deepened and she stomped her right foot.

"Last chance, Clarissa. Are you going to move, or do I have to make you?" Jonathan lowered his voice into a mocking whisper.

Clary narrowed her eyes, as if to challenge her brother. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed.

"Maybe not…but I'm confident that I have other ways to make you concede." There was a brief flash of mischief in his green eyes, followed closely by a devilish smirk.

Clary's eyes widened. "Jonathan Christopher—No!" As she tried to back away, her brother speedily lunged forward and seized her sides, his vicious tickle causing loud peals of laughter to escape her.

"Jon! Pleaseee! Stop!" She screeched, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks from the strenuous effort of laughing. She writhed and shoved at Jonathan's hands, willing him to spare her mercy, but he wouldn't let up on his torture.

 _What I would give to be the one to make her laugh like that,_ Jace thought, unable to help himself. He could feel his pulse flutter rapidly beneath his chest, and at the same time, an alien sensation, like bats flapping around wildly in the pit of his stomach.

He'd thought that it was impossible for Clary to look even more radiant than she already was, but right in that moment, he realized that he couldn't have been more wrong. With her head thrown back in laughter, her eyes pinched shut, and her smile so wide that he could see the even rows of her pearly-white teeth, Jace was certain he'd never seen a more perfect vision.

Stripped from her royal righteousness and the stiff façade he suspected she wore as a guise, like his own, he felt as if he was finally seeing her—

 _Clary_. Bare. Unguarded. Free.

And Jace swore he had never witnessed a more enchanting sight than that.

After another seemingly long minute of mindless giggly torture, the white-blond prince finally relented with his sister's pleas. Clary gasped loudly when his prodding ceased, and threw an elbow into her brother's side.

"Oof!" Jonathan clutched at area where his sister had elbowed him with a fake groan.

"Liar," Clary muttered as she tried to catch her breath. "I felt solid rock when I elbowed you. You can stop pretending that you're hurt."

Jonathan quickly straightened himself with a grin, but his expression turned wary when Clary gave him a sly smirk.

"Stay away from my face," he warned, deliberately taking two steps away from his sister.

It was only when Jace shifted from his position, causing Wayfarer to nicker and nudge his head playfully against the back of his own head, that Jonathan and Clary finally turned their attention to him, surprise evident on their faces when they realized that they weren't quite alone.

 _Ouch_ , Jace thought sarcastically. _If it weren't for Wayfarer, I would have remained invisible—or_ forgotten _, in Clary's case._

When he caught her eye, she flushed self-consciously and looked down. Jonathan, on the other hand, was quick to recover.

"Oh, hello. I didn't see you there earlier," the prince said as he sauntered over to Jace. "I'm Jonathan—'Jon' for short." He grinned and offered Jace his hand.

Jace stood unmoving for a brief moment, eyes assessing the prince—no, Valentine's _son_ , he corrected himself. It was surreal how almost identical he looked to his sworn enemy, from the angular structure of his face to the curve of his nose and mouth. But whereas Valentine had charcoal-black eyes that made Jace feel as if he were staring into the looming pits of hell, his were a bright emerald green, like Clary's. He even wore a large, playful grin on his face, one Jace knew Valentine wouldn't be caught dead with.

His hand shot out and grabbed the prince's, and he shook it firmly.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

Immediately, Jace's mind flashed back to when he first met Clary in the market. He remembered how she had asked him the _exact_ same question, and in the same straightforward manner too. The memory caused the corners of his lips to twitch into a smile—just barely—until he remembered that he _shouldn't_ be smiling.

Jonathan sighed wearily. "Let's try this again. I'm _Jo-na-than_ ," he said, purposely drawling out the syllables in his name. "But you can call me 'Jon'. My sister does."

Unlike the first time, Jace couldn't dismiss how the prince had introduced himself on a _first-name basis_ —twice now. Had he been wrong in perceiving the Morgenstern children as duplicates of their demon father? As far as his experiences went, he had never met a member of royalty who would so willingly shake hands with gladiators, or address them in a manner that would remotely suggest they were of an equal standing. His late parents were probably the only exception he knew of—which made Jonathan an anomaly.

Nevertheless, he wasn't about to start divulging his real name. "Shadowhunter," Jace replied, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"Ahhh, I've heard of you. The youngest and most promising gladiator of our generation," Jonathan smiled, clapping a hand on Jace's shoulder. "Nice to meet you. I hope my sister hasn't been bothering you from your duties."

Lowering his voice to a teasing whisper, he continued, "She can be a real annoyance sometimes. I should know…I've been stuck with her for nearly sixteen years. Ever since she learnt how to talk, all she's done is badger me incessantly." He let out a dramatic sigh as Clary marched up to him and delivered a playful smack to the back of his head.

"Ow! Where is the love, little sister?" Jonathan pouted, rubbing the back of his head in an exaggerated fashion. "After all I've done for _you_ —sixteen years!"

"Oh, deal with it, you big baby," Clary retorted before turning to Jace. Her eyes widened slightly when they met his, as if she was surprised to see him already looking at her. His mouth curved into an involuntary smile, which she didn't quite reciprocate. Instead, she gave him a curt nod and pressed her lips into a thin line.

"See you around, _Shadowhunter_." Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed her brother by the ear and stomped off, leaving Jace staring blankly into space even long after she had disappeared from his sight.

 _What the heck?!_ He thought when he finally came to his senses. He didn't know what he had done to offend her this time—she was so impossibly confusing that he was half-tempted to run after her, grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she made up her mind! Oh, women and their fickle mood swings!

Knowing that, however, didn't stop the smile from surfacing amidst his self-frustrated thoughts. He was stupid, so unbelievably, irrevocably _stupid_ , but for the second time in the last three days, he found himself secretly hoping to see the princess again soon.

* * *

 **September 6, 508**

"How was horse poop duty, Jace?" Alec teased him as they sparred.

Jace neatly sidestepped out of the way when Alec lunged forward, the edge of his wooden sword narrowly missing his torso. Feigning a low blow, Jace then spun and leaped forward, suspending himself in the air for a good few seconds before colliding into Alec. His parabatai made a disgruntled noise when they both landed, Alec noticeably flushed and weaponless while Jace pinned him down. He smirked and pressed his sword against Alec's jugular. "I believe that's the third time I've killed you this afternoon, Alexander."

Alec rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Jace, just don't let it go to your fat head. Besides, the sun was getting into my eyes and I couldn't see properly."

"Do I detect a sore loser, Alec? All these poor excuses are very unbecoming of you," he quipped before helping his friend up to his feet. "And to answer your question, I had _fun_ shoveling manure. In fact, it was so _refreshing_ I could have sworn it was like a day at the spa. Do you notice anything different about me? I, for one, think my hair looks exceptionally shinier when I woke up this morning!" Jace said with mock-enthusiasm.

When they reached the eastern corner of the field, Jace quickly threw himself down on the grass, grateful for what little shade he could get from the sun. Alec shook his head but sat down next to him with a smile, pausing only to nod at the two guards who sent looks their way. Since they had proven themselves to be able to get along, Emil and the rest of the guards had laid off of them, but they still kept an eye on them from time to time.

"They're still skeptical about us being able to keep the peace, huh?" Jace said, keeping his eyes closed. His arms were folded behind his head, while his left foot rested against his bent right knee.

"Can you blame them?" Alec chuckled. "We were enemies one day and allies the next. You have to admit—it's a cause for suspicion."

Jace smirked. "A great puzzle indeed. The universe works in such strange ways…"

"Speaking of," Alec cleared his throat, sounding serious all of a sudden, "Have you by any chance ran into any of the royal family?"

At Alec's question, Jace leaned up onto his elbows and studied his friend's face. "I have," he said indifferently, still trying to decipher Alec's reasons. "Why?"

"Nothing," Alec said before looking down at his palms. Jace nudged his foot lightly against Alec's ribs, wordlessly seeking an explanation. "I was just curious. Nothing more."

Jace raised his eyebrow dubiously. "You really expect me to believe that? You have never been just _curious_ , Alec. Neither are you one for small talk."

"I really don't know what you think you're supposed to believe, Jace. It was a simple question—Let's just leave it at that."

"Well, in all fairness, I've only met the princess, Clary, and her brother, Jonathan," Jace decided to offer. "I still haven't made up my mind about what I'm going to do with them if it comes down to… _you know_ —" He shook his head. He'd only recently told Alec about his intentions to kill Valentine and to take back his kingdom, which was difficult enough of a task since he was only one man… Still, if given the chance, he would take it. He wouldn't hesitate if it were Valentine, but his children were an entirely different story. They were _innocent_ —but then again, hadn't he been an innocent too?

"From what I've seen, Jonathan's an idiot, but a good idiot anyway," he added unthinkingly. "He takes care of his sister and he's nowhere nearly as cold or a monster like Valentine."

Jace smiled, his amber eyes softening until they resembled two pools of melted honey. "And Clary… Clary's just—the most amazing girl I've ever met," he said softly. "The first time I met her in the market, she bought me food from the bakery…then she let me sit with her and just talk to her. And afterwards, when I got mad at her and I almost lost it, she just forgave me.

"Clary's really frustrating, confusing, and unbelievably naïve…but she's definitely something of her own. I mean, I don't think I've ever met anyone as humble, modest, or as genuine as she is." He looked at Alec, his face barely masking his internal conflict. It was the first time in years that he was allowing himself to open up to anyone, he realized.

"It's hard to believe that Valentine's her father. She may have a horrible excuse of a man as a parent but I don't think Valentine's succeeded in tainting her. I don't think he ever will."

Alec's face took on an undecipherable expression as he processed his parabatai's words, slightly unnerved by how taken Jace already seemed to be with the princess. It wasn't jealousy by any means, but insurmountable concern for a boy whom he saw as his own brother.

When Alec first saw him in the mess hall after eight years—before he found out that Shadowhunter was, in fact, Jace—he'd felt a sharp pang of brokenness and rage at the sight of him. _One look_ at him and he was reminded of the Herondales—of the friend he'd thought he'd lost. He had been convinced that the world was playing cruel tricks on him. How could this new gladiator bear the face of his dead friend? How could God mock him for his losses when he'd struggled for nearly a decade to move on from them?

But after finding out that his friend was indeed alive, that Shadowhunter was no Herondale impostor, he'd sworn that he would protect the last bit of family he had left. Jace was impulsive by nature, and he didn't want him to get hurt. Fraternizing with a Morgenstern girl would only earn him a broken heart, and if he failed to be careful… _death_.

After a few minutes of silence, Alec sighed, almost wearily. "Just be careful around them, Jace. As a matter of fact, I think it'd be best if you avoid them completely. They're Valentine's children—they're probably as manipulative and deceitful as he is," he said dryly.

"You don't happen to have romantic feelings for this _Clary,_ do you?" Alec couldn't stop himself from asking, his tone spiteful. Between the two of them, it was no secret that he shared Jace's boiling hatred for Valentine. But where Jace seemed capable of separating the Morgenstern children from their father, Alec saw them as the same entity. The same people who had ripped his family, and dozens of other families, apart. "I mean, the way you talk about her, it's almost as if—"

"Not that it should be any of your concern, _Alexander_ , but no, I don't," Jace interjected, feeling his protective instincts flare up at Alec's comment. He leveled the blue-eyed boy with a cold look, one he didn't think he would ever use against his best friend.

"You weren't there when Valentine killed my parents that night, Alec. You don't know the horrible things he did to them—to my mother. Do you really think I want to associate myself with Valentine's little _spawn_?" He spat bitterly, causing Alec to flinch.

"Jace, I didn't mean it like that—"

"It would do you good to find some other sparring partner for today, Alec. I'm not in the mood to listen to any more of your self-righteous pontification." Jace hastily rose to his feet then headed towards the prison cells. Inexplicable pain tore at him with every step he took, and he clenched his jaw, his breathing ragged and heavy.

He didn't even realize until then how much he'd wanted Alec's approval when it came to his relationship with Clary—or as close of a relationship he could ever hope to gain with her. There was nothing worse than having his best friend—his _brother_ , for all intents and purposes—to disagree with him so completely, for not giving him the chance he wasn't even aware he had wanted from him.

And then there was guilt…guilt for calling Clary 'Valentine's little spawn', for insinuating that he held even a modicum of disgust for her just because of her last name. He didn't know what to make of his feelings for Clary, but he was sure that he didn't think of her in that way. He couldn't even believe how degrading he'd made her sound.

But Alec did have a point, though. How sure was he that he could he trust Clary? Jace, who had issues trusting his own master, the man who had looked after him and trained him for the past eight years…

He'd only known Clary for a short few days—hours, really—and she'd done nothing, save for an act of kindness or two, to earn his trust.

So how could he trust _her_?

 _She's a Morgenstern, and Morgensterns are liars,_ his subconscious taunted him. _When it comes down to blood, whose side do you think she'll stand on? Her father's brainwashed her into hating the Herondales—If she finds out who you really are, what's to stop her from turning you in? What's to stop her from turning against you?_

Jace let out a frustrated yell as he buried his face in his hands. Suddenly, it was all too much. The rage, the frustration, the doubt—He wanted release. He wanted to destroy something, anything— _anything_ that would take away these feelings of uncertainty.

His left hand curled into a tight fist, and without warning, he sent it flying into the dry wall, causing his knuckles to bust and a spray of red to ooze from his skin. It was satisfying and almost empowering, the feeling of hammering a hole into the wall with his bare hand—but it also really, _really_ _hurt_.

Yelling out a curse, Jace bit his lip as a fresh wave of pain came over him. He lifted his bloodied fist and scowled at it. It stung furiously, but at the same time, the pain was sobering enough for realization to dawn on him—

Clary's the reason he'd hurt himself.

And why was he letting that happen? She was just a girl, _the enemy's daughter._ Alec was right. There could be no future with the two of them in it together. Why can't he just accept that and save himself from this entire quandary that was clearly beginning to destroy everything he'd once held certain?

He was done with this. He was beyond ready to move past this senseless, dimwitted phase and focus on everything he had built himself up for. So that just leaves one thing—

Cutting out Clary, from his life, from his mind, for good.

 _This settles it. No more Clary. No more pining over a Morgenstern girl. No more Clary,_ he thought resolutely.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Much to talk about in this chapter. Simon, Jonathan, Clary, Jace, Alec... And old readers, yes, I added in a couple of new stuff: Jace's imagination of his parents' ghosts in the stables, for one, then his flashback of his mother's miscarriage when he was much, much younger. So let me know what you think of that :)**_

 _ **I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. To**_ **Laurinis** _ **, thank you for reviewing every chapter thus far, including the one-shots I've posted. Seriously girl, I don't mind at all having my inbox flooded with reviews. It makes me smile :) Also, to**_ **Olivia Dawnstar _, I got your PM reply in my old account. If you've gotten this far back into Redemption, then welcome back. Thank you for being a loyal reader since my earlier days in FF._ Jling _, obviously, much love to you! And new readers, of course, welcome._**

 ** _I have to admit, reposting_ Redemption _has been such a huge emotional and mental challenge for me because of my present anxiety issues and paranoia. The previous attempt of plagiarism on this story by the FF-user-who-shall-not-be-named still leaves me with crippling fear to this day, and I feel that I'm taking a huge risk by putting this story up again. But the reassurances of past loyal readers is making me fight to stay with this decision. But really, it is STILL very hard for me. Some days, I am happy about returning to FF...but on other days, I feel extremely scared and anxious, to the point where I make myself sick sometimes. I know there are many other more accomplished writers on this site_ _who have fearlessly put up their wonderful stories for the TMI community, and I admire these writers. As a writer contending with these issues, I would like to implore to readers once again, let us all respect every writer's right to their work and stay away from acts such as plagiarism. Most of us on this site are not here to make a profit from writing, but simply to express our love for the characters created by their original authors by writing stories based on them. I apologize, once again, for rehashing about this issue, but it has been a cause of so much of my distress lately that I need an outlet to vent._**

 ** _Until next time, my lovelies, may there be peace and love with all of you xoxo_**


	7. Chapter 6: A Weakening Resolve

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6: A WEAKENING RESOLVE**

 **September 10, 508**

Jace scrunched his nose in disgust as he shoveled pile after pile of horse manure from the stalls. The reek was so dreadful that he fought against the urge to throw up as the stench invaded his nostrils and laid waste to his olfactory system.

How _Rat-Face_ was able to put up with the horrible smell on a daily basis was beyond his ability to comprehend. He felt a tiny shred of respect for him—just barely.

Nearly a week had passed since the start of his nightly duties at the stables and so far, he hadn't seen Clary around at all. Barely a day after his argument with Alec, he had been swarmed with guilt for letting his confounded feelings over a girl get in the way of their long-forged friendship, so needless to say, they had both reconciled.

And as for Jace's lack of encounters with Clary, it had been both a relief and a distress for him. The less he saw of her, the easier it was to ignore the burning feelings he had for her—

Or at least, that was what he had been trying to tell himself.

At this point, he was at the peak of his struggle against his self-denial. He thought that he could do it. He thought that he could move on without her constant badgering at the back of his mind, but the reality was, he couldn't.

Before, training had always proven to be a quick fix, satiating his need for a temporary escape—but even that had been bested, by a girl who was just barely over five feet tall, no less. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, at the end of the day, she was _always_ there.

How had he gone from someone who felt nothing but anger and hatred to someone who just felt _too much_? How had he gone from someone who yearned for nothing but freedom and revenge to someone who just wanted _more_? And how had he turned into a jumpy person who practically freaked at the first glance of something green or red?

But then again, there was so much beauty in those two colors, especially when contrasted against a palette of porcelain-white that had been purposefully splattered with light brown _freckles_ …

Jace shook his head impatiently. He was doing it again. Connecting every single meaningless, inconsequential thought to her. Clary. Clary. Clary. It was almost as if he were obsessed with her—and he _loathed_ it.

He loathed the loss of self-control, of the unassumed power she held over him. She was a hell lot worse than Valentine—at least with the demon, his intentions were clear. His daughter, on the other hand, was an unchartered territory, utterly unpredictable and possibly even capable of destroying him…

His fingers twitched again and his right eye spasmed. It wouldn't be long before the frustration built up and he would resort to yanking on the roots of his hair—the latest victim of his wrath, apparently. He could only hope he had any hair left at all by the end of his ordeal. He would be severely pissed with himself if he had premature hair loss all because of a girl…then he would be a breathing, walking joke among the gladiators.

Jace dropped his head to the ground and sighed resignedly. He absolutely hated to admit it but he missed Clary. He missed her innocent green eyes and her flaming red hair. He missed her smile, her laugh, and as stupid as it sounded, he even missed bickering with her. Why couldn't she just show up so he could get it over and done with? She said that she would _see_ him _around_ , and while it was no promise, he'd hoped that she would keep up her end of the…statement. It was driving him insane not being able to see her!

 _It's probably for the best, Jace. Maybe now you can finally get back to the task at hand, do what you've always planned from the start,_ his father's voice suddenly interjected in his head. Jace frowned.

 _Is this some sort of a spiritual intervention? Wasn't it just less than a week ago you were teasing me about already having a lady in mind?_ he countered, immediately shaking his head when he realized just how silly he was acting—and that was putting it _nicely_. Since his return to Idris, he had been having far too many third-person conversations with himself and it was beginning to drive him slightly over the edge.

"Hey." A meek voice spoke over his thoughts.

Almost simultaneously, Jace started, catching himself just before he could trip over his own feet and land face-first into the pile of manure at the sound of the siren's—no, _Clary's_ voice. Barely giving himself time to calm his thundering heart, he spun around quickly, his eyes widening in surprise as he took her in.

 _OH GOOD LORD. What is this sorcery?!_ Jace could have sworn that he had choked on his own saliva. As if it weren't spooky enough that she had shown up at the _exact_ moment he'd wished for her to show up…

Could all this be a dream? _Are you a dream?_ He wanted to ask her, but given the fact that he was tongue-tied, he could do nothing but gawk at her, his eyes unconsciously trailing the length of her body.

For the first time since their few encounters, Clary had done away with her elaborate gowns for a long-sleeved white tunic and a pair of tight-fitting black leather trousers. A pair of silver-studded leather boots adorned her feet, the heel giving her an extra three inches on her height. Her auburn hair, which usually hung freely over her shoulders in waves, was pulled into a side braid, and she was clutching a black cloak in her hands.

Jace bit back a groan when he finally looked up to meet Clary's eyes. She was peering at him from underneath her eyelashes, the usual feistiness she wore hidden beneath a veil of shyness. She smiled, almost hesitantly, the dainty corners of her lips quirking into the tiniest of simpers and murmured something quietly.

Thinking that she was only talking to herself, Jace continued to stare…and stare…and stare a little bit more. He felt as if he was under a spell, one that did not permit him to look away from the manifestation of beauty that was standing right in front of him. The longer he stared at her, the harder it became for him to look away. He couldn't even bring himself to feel slightly abashed when he saw the flush rising in her cheeks, adding a splash of rosy-pink color to her otherwise fair skin.

 _Compose yourself, Herondale_. Even the voice in his head sounded nervous and unsure. _No need to be so flustered. It's only Clary…_

He swallowed hard as his eyes zeroed in on her moving lips, which were painted a darker shade of red than usual, adding to the fierceness of her look. Slowly, his gaze trailed up her face, to her button nose, then finally, it rested on her emerald green eyes. They seemed to shine even brighter tonight, their sparkle rivaling with the natural splendor of the twinkling stars. Or perhaps, they had always shined that bright, he mused. He just hadn't had the opportunity to properly gaze into them until now.

"Shadowhunter?" Her soft voice cut through his thoughts as she leveled him with a bemused frown. "Are you all right?"

Jace blinked and cleared his throat, the spell that had only moments ago turned him into a mere prisoner of his own musings shattered.

 _Snap out of it!_ His conscience admonished him.

He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tense and the blank face he wore so often settling over his features. The mask was supposedly familiar, yet it felt foreign to him—Had it always felt this…taxing?

"I'm sorry," Jace said evenly, clearing his throat again to get rid of the slight hitch in his voice. "Did you say something earlier, Milady?" He could feel heat—unfamiliar, uncomfortable heat—prick the back of his neck and singe the tops of his ears.

Clary gave him a contemplative look and smirked, as if enjoying his embarrassment. Blank face or not, she seemed to have guessed how much she was affecting him, Jace realized, which put him in an extremely uncomfortable position. He didn't like that she could see through his defenses—no one was supposed to.

"I _said_ ," she deigned, regaining a bit of feistiness, "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Five days, to be exact," Jace's swift reply slipped out before he could stop himself. He felt the heat burn even hotter in his neck and the blood spread rapidly to his cheeks until he was fairly certain that he now resembled a ripe-red tomato. "Not that I was counting or anything," he quickly covered. "Of course, it must be expected of you—being a princess and all. I take it you must've been busy tending to your own duties."

"Hmm," she replied, still smirking slightly at his driveling.

"No dress today, I see?" He blurted out.

His blunt observation effectively killed her smirk and Jace mentally applauded himself when he saw _her_ cheeks grow red instead of his. He should have said it sooner…if only he hadn't been distracted by her state of "no-dress", that was.

"No," Clary said, recovering with a soft, sheepish smile. "I didn't think wearing a dress would have been appropriate since I'm planning on going out riding tonight. Why, do you think these clothes do not suit me?" She asked in a small voice, as if she were afraid of his disapproval.

"No, I think they suit you very well. You look very fetching in leather trousers, I think," Jace replied, his eyes appraising her toned figure appreciatively.

Clary blushed a deeper shade of red. "Thank you," she returned, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

As she tugged her bottom lip in between her teeth, an obvious sign of her nervousness or discomfort—Jace preferred to think it was the former—his gaze fell on her lips once more, causing him to swallow thickly.

The image that his mind inadvertently conjured was—like most things he found related to Clary— _new_ , but he couldn't help but think of how right it was.

He shivered and shook his head to rid himself of the dirty thoughts tainting his mind. It wasn't him. Regardless of the impressions people drew of him—blond, arrogant, _sexually appealing_ —he wasn't a philanderer. Being a gladiator ruled out every possibility of a relationship, even one that merely comprised of casual sex.

But Jace imagined that even if he weren't a gladiator, he would have turned out the same way—a little bit of a flirt perhaps, but not the kind of man who went around sleeping with women. His parents were staunch believers in tradition, after all.

Even if he wasn't necessarily the most religious, he still held onto the basics of which he'd been taught. His body wasn't some sort of a commodity to be given away freely, and neither were the women who paid interest in him.

 _Oh, get your stupid blond head out of the clouds, boy!_ A snarky voice interjected. _As if anyone would ever marry a gladiator!_

Jace growled to himself. He imagined that if his 'conscience' could take on a corporeal existence, he would have surely introduced him to his fist—multiple times by now. Averting his gaze to the ground, he grasped the shovel in a vise-grip, as if it were the only thing tethering him to his withering sanity.

"I don't recall ever seeing women in trousers before," he said in an impassive tone, a last-ditch attempt to distract himself. "As a matter of fact, I've always thought that they were banned from wearing them," he said, almost to himself.

Clary shrugged, looking only slightly offended by his comment. "It is…in most countries, anyway, but, not in Idris," she replied, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Of course, dresses are still the standard appropriate attire for most women here, but a couple years back, my mother insisted on modifying the customs to allow women to wear trousers…you know, for practical reasons like horse riding… My father initially threw a big argument against it, but he eventually caved in," she explained.

"Huh," Jace said, his mind drawing a blank at a more intelligent response. As a separate thought entered his mind, he looked over Clary's shoulder warily, as if expecting guards to stroll in at any minute. Members of the royal family were usually accompanied by guards or royal escorts, weren't they? The other night could have just been an exception…

"No one bothers with me," Clary said, as if catching onto his train of thought. "And in case you haven't noticed, my father doesn't think that it's necessary to have his guards stationed at places of little consequence like the stables. He reserves his manpower for other more important duties—like guarding his precious arena."

Jace nodded. He didn't quite understand Valentine's logic—there were so many flaws in his security—but somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not when the princess was standing in front of him anyway. And definitely not while the situation posed a certain degree of advantage to him. He would take what little freedom he could get.

"And you? Why does he think it's unnecessary for his daughter to walk around unescorted? Surely you must be of some value to him." He could see that his remark hit a sore spot with Clary as she tried and failed to hide her wince.

"Not as much as one would think," she replied with a stoic expression. "As long as I'm in my bedroom by my curfew, I'm allowed to wander to my heart's content… _At least for now anyway_ ," she mumbled the last part to herself.

"I see," Jace bit his lip unsurely. "What are you doing here then?" He asked, his tone accidentally coming across as short and clipped.

Clary looked up and furrowed her eyebrows at him warily. "I've already answered that question, if you recall," she said slowly. She eyed the horse behind him before returning her gaze to him. "I'm here for Wayfarer. Trousers…horse riding…remember?"

Jace waved off her reply before turning his back to her, feeling like an idiot for even asking her the obvious. What was it about her that made him so nervous, and in turn, behave so stupidly?

Irrational anger flooded his veins and he was half-tempted to fling the shovel into the ground—or throw his fist into the closest wooden pillar—when Clary snapped at him.

"Will you stop that?" The anger in her tone surprised him.

"Stop what?"

"Stop turning your back on me!" She exclaimed. She threw her hands up into the air before letting them fall back to her sides with a thump. "The least you could do is to excuse yourself if my presence bothers you so much. I'd be more than understanding if you wanted me to leave you alone," she said, sounding both hurt and angry at the same time. She took a few quick strides towards Wayfarer's stall, brushing past Jace in the process, but not expecting him to grab her wrist. She recoiled from him as though his touch had burned her, her breaths heavy. "And do not assume that you have the right to touch me."

Instead of apologizing, Jace clenched his jaw and glowered at her, a sudden feeling of protectiveness laced with frustration bubbling to the surface. "It's late," he said, completely ignoring her comment about him touching her. "You shouldn't be riding out there by yourself, especially since you're a princess."

Clary bristled in annoyance before rolling her eyes at him. "What does me being a princess have anything to do with my decision to ride at night? It hardly even matters to my father—why should it matter to you?" She demanded, frustrated tears shining in her emerald eyes. A tear escaped her eye and she stubbornly rubbed it away, sniffling a little. "Maybe I just want to get away and be alone."

"Milady—"

"Why do you do this, Shadowhunter?" Clary whispered. "Why do you act so cold and indifferent one second and then pretend to care about me the next?"

Jace's features softened visibly at her words. "I'm not pretending," he said, only half-answering her. "I…I c-care." And it was the truth. As much as he wanted to deny it, he _did_ care about Clary, even if he didn't understand why. He didn't miss the hitch in her breathing at his admission, and took it as an encouragement to take her hand in his. It was so small, but fit in his hand perfectly like a glove.

"I lied," Clary said after a while. She was staring intently at their enjoined hands, like how one would imagine a toddler gazing at something entirely new and strange to her. There was so much innocence in her green eyes, yet surprisingly, she showed no ounce of naivety. "I didn't exactly come here for Wayfarer," she continued softly, shyly. Jace raised an eyebrow, urging her on. She gave him a rueful smile and lowered her eyes, blushing.

"I came for _you_. I wanted to see you." His golden eyes widened at her quiet confession and this time, he couldn't ignore the way his heart skipped a beat.

Never in a million years would he have dreamed to hear a girl, and one as beautiful as Clary at that, to say such words to him. There was no implication of something else—it was just pure honesty. She'd admitted something which _he knew_ he reciprocated.

In the past few days, hours, minutes, seconds that had ticked by, he'd longed to see her too, but he was much too cowardly, too full of his own self-doubt to say it out loud.

"It's silly, I know," Clary rambled, saving him from having to speak. "We've only known each other for what, a couple of days…hours at most, really. I shouldn't feel this _want_ to see you. I shouldn't feel anything. We're not even friends." She laughed, but it sounded pained. "Maybe that's the problem," she muttered. "Besides my servants and Jonathan, I don't have any friends. I don't know any better."

Jace felt his heart twist with empathy and a twinge of guilt surged through him for his previous unwarranted tactlessness. Having spent the last eight years of his life as a slave, he knew exactly how it felt like to feel trapped, controlled and above all, alone.

And to live a life as _Valentine's_ _daughter_ , to be fathered by a man who so obviously lusted and craved the very idea of control, he realized how terribly misjudged he must have been to think that Clary would be pardoned from having to grow up under Valentine's iron fist.

They weren't much different from each other, him and Clary. They both lacked freedom, and regrettably, friends.

"Would you like me to escort you, Milady?" Jace asked, inadvertently disregarding his earlier decision to avoid the princess.

Clary's green eyes widened in genuine surprise and she searched his amber ones warily, looking for a hint of condescendence, anything to allude that he was only jesting. When she saw that he was being serious about his offer, she gave him a thoughtful look.

"As much as I'd like that," she said, blushing slightly, "I'm not sure if it'll be appropriate. An unmarried man and woman shouldn't be seen together like that—much less at night."

"You have my word that I will not behave inappropriately, Milady," Jace swore. "My only intentions are to keep you safe. Please. I think it'd be far less wiser for damsel to be traveling at night without a guard—not that I am trying to imply that you are incapable of taking care of yourself or anything. And… If you won't think of me as an acquaintance, then think of me as your personal bodyguard."

Clary paused for a long time, seeming to mull over his words in her head. She could sense his sincerity in them; his desire to protect her from harm. Finally, she nodded. "If you put it that way," she said, "Very well, then. You may come along."

Jace returned her smile, an act, he realized belatedly, that was completely out of the ordinary for him. There were only several people in his life that he'd reserved his smile for: his parents, Alec, and on occasion, Michael.

Clary, on the other hand… Clary was _new_.

He looked away, only to notice that they were still touching, her delicate, unblemished skin on his, their palms practically kissing and their fingers interlocked in a tight embrace as if they didn't want to let each other go— _he_ didn't want to let go.

A jolt of electricity shot through his spine at the realization. _Pull away,_ a voice told him. _Hold onto her. Don't let go,_ another voice argued.

But knowing that he had to let go of her at some point in order for them to _actually_ leave the stables, Jace reluctantly did, his hand losing warmth the moment hers slipped out of his grip.

"You should put your cloak on," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "The night air can be unpleasantly chilly and I don't want you to catch a cold." He stared at her for a little longer than necessary, swallowed, then looked down at his feet.

"If you'll excuse me, Milady," he mumbled, remembering how angry she had been at him earlier when he'd turned his back on her without excusing himself. He caught a flash of her appreciative smile just before he'd turned away from her completely.

 _Keep calm, you idiot. One foot in front of the other. You don't need to make a jackass out of yourself by tripping in front of her now. You've already embarrassed yourself enough,_ his snarky conscience unhelpfully remarked.

Jace rolled his eyes. Stupid, irritating, _noisy_ conscience—he wished it would shut up and leave him alone already.

 _Fat chance,_ it scoffed back.

"Shut up!" He accidentally spat—to thin air.

"Are you all right, Shadowhunter?" Clary's voice startled him. He turned to see her looking at him, her eyes wide and sparkling with concern. She had already put on her cloak, which fell to the level just below her knees.

"Uh—yes. O-of course," he stammered before hastening his steps to Wayfarer's stall.

He unlatched the bolts on the door, furiously trying to tamp down the feelings of severe humiliation— _she'd caught him talking to himself, for God's sake!_ —as he led the brown steed out by its reins and brought it to a halt next to Clary. She turned towards Wayfarer and brushed his muzzle with her hand. Jace silently thanked God that her attention was not on him as he busied himself with the saddling up the horse.

"You're a good boy, aren't you, Wayfarer?" She cooed to the brown steed as if it were an infant.

A smile tugged at Jace's lips. It was an adorable sight, and he found himself forgetting the reason he was ever distressed in the first place. At least the girl he had questionable feelings for treated his horse right, he thought.

Once Wayfarer was all prepped and ready, Jace straddled the horse with an easy grace. Wayfarer nickered and stomped his hooves against the ground excitedly.

"Easy there, boy," Jace chuckled, rubbing the side of the horse's neck. He turned to Clary. "Let's go, Milady," he said, offering her his hand.

She hesitated. "I…" she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the stalls. "I wasn't aware that we would be sharing a horse," she said shyly.

Jace felt his own cheeks heat. "Oh," he said, feeling the urge to slap himself. "I…If you—"

"You can take Wayfarer. I'll take my mother's," she decided, gesturing to the white horse that occupied the stall next to Wayfarer's. "The Countess hasn't been ridden in a while. I'm sure she would appreciate a night walk."

Jace raised a questioning brow. "The Countess?"

"That's what my mother named her," Clary simply replied.

"Oh, and your mother wouldn't mind you riding her horse?" He asked curiously as he dismounted Wayfarer.

A sad look passed over Clary's eyes, but it was gone so quickly, Jace supposed he must have imagined it in the first place.

"Not at all," she finally said.

Jace nodded to acknowledge that he'd heard her while he helped to prepare her mother's horse. The Countess was a beautiful beast, far calmer and more elegant than Wayfarer—she was certainly deserving of her name, Jace concluded.

"Well, you better hurry, Shadowhunter," Clary said once she had mounted The Countess. She flashed Jace a grin then, almost challenging him. "As much as I adore Wayfarer, The Countess is one of the fastest horses we have around here. I hope you'll be able keep up with us."

Jace found himself grinning back at her. "Oh, Milady, we'll see about that."

Without another word, Clary kicked her horse into riding gear, and then she and The Countess were off, galloping freely into the night. Jace shook his head at her obvious childlike enthusiasm as he braced Wayfarer for the starting run. A part of him warned him to stay put—to not go after the princess—but he fought tooth and nail against his very conscience. There was no harm partaking in a little horse-riding, was there?

* * *

The full moon shone like a luminous pearl against the star-freckled night sky, casting a silvery glow upon the crystal waters of Lake Lyn.

Jace sat, his back leaning against the rough contours of the old willow tree, and his palms resting upon the grass. A wistful smile crossed his lips as he remembered the days he spent training at the lake with Alec. It felt like only yesterday he was just an ten-year-old who had no care or worry for the world. He would give anything to have all that again.

As his amber eyes landed on the redheaded princess, he felt his breath catch, and as if it were a habit he now associated with the Clary, the appendage in his chest began to pulsate, its beat fevered and untamed.

He placed his hand on his chest, though his intuition told him that the reaction would not go away anytime soon. As far as his attempts at being neutral went, he couldn't repudiate the fact that his body, at least, wanted the princess.

 _Let's not forget, shall we? You've also admitted that you cared_ —care _for her,_ his snarky subconscious reminded him. _Might as well stick your other foot into the grave that you've so stupidly dug for yourself. Blithering idiot. Where the hell did your self-preservation go to?_

Jace decided to tune out the moment his fiendish side berated him for acting like a desperate, deprived, hormonal teenage boy who was making an utter fool out of himself by "panting after the enemy's daughter like a dog in heat". It wasn't true! Neither was it helping him to make any sense of his feelings for Clary, even if he wasn't supposed to feel anything but detached indifference for her—or anybody else, for that matter.

A soft singing pulled him out of his thoughts and Jace looked up towards the sound of the siren's call. The girl herself was standing by the edge of the lake, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she swayed lightly against the wind.

She was beautiful, a far greater beauty than the night ever was. And yet, it was almost as if she were completely oblivious to just how spellbinding she really was.

He strained his ears, trying to make out the words of the song she was singing. The tune sounded strikingly familiar but try as he might, he couldn't decipher the lyrics. It must be an old lullaby, he decided.

Jace let his head fall backwards against the trunk of the tree, sighing heavily as an ambitious thought danced across his mind.

It wasn't for the first time that he wished he could enfold her in his arms, and escape the harsh and painful truth that was reality, just to live in his own haven of dreams with her. A dream where they were two simple souls, neither a gladiator nor a princess, neither a Herondale nor a Morgenstern. Just Jace and Clary. Two people who could just…be.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking away his fantasies. That was all it will ever be—a fantasy, an illusion, a misguided hope.

It wasn't as if he was in love with her or anything. He was physically drawn to Clary and cared more about her more than he should, but he wasn't in love with her.

So why, God, was he so invested in her?

* * *

As Clary twirled away from the lake, her emerald green eyes instantly met the gladiator's shimmering aureate ones like a pulsing magnetic attraction. Under the moon's silvery-white incandescence, his golden features appeared washed down, yet he was still as stunning and alluring as ever.

She bit her lip, wishing she could run her dainty fingers through his golden halo of lustrous curls. Wishing for an alternate reality where he was a prince, and not a gladiator.

As he gave her a close-lipped smile, Clary could have sworn that she felt blood rushing to her cheeks. She was grateful for the distance between them; had he been any closer he would have probably been able to hear the embarrassingly loud thumping of her heart. It was a strange but decidedly welcome reaction.

Before him, there were of course other men, usually older than her, who had either shown or expressed their interest in her: the royal guards, her father's councilmen and even the servants and townspeople—her best friend Simon included—but none of them had ever evoked such a reaction out of her.

None could make her heart beat as strongly as it did now, or unleash an entire nest of butterflies in her tummy. None of them would occupy her mind and haunt her relentlessly within the hours of consciousness and beyond, in her dreams.

 _He_ did though.

Clary closed her eyes, remembering their first encounter in the market. The images rolled in her head, a mixture of colors and strokes that came together to form a perfect painting.

 _Clary had only pulled away from Max when she felt someone's gaze on her, his intense stare sending prickles of heat and discomfort running up her spine. Her heart racing, she immediately rose to her feet to address her 'starer', an arsenal of feisty remarks at the ready to tell him off. The moment she laid eyes on him though, she felt her breath catch in her throat and her cheeks flush. She had expected an old perverted creep, not…him._

 _Despite the hooded cloak that he wore, she could easily see that her starer was a handsome young man. With high cheekbones, a sturdy jawline, and lean build, he reminded Clary of her older brother Jonathan. Silken blond curls peeked through the sides of his face that weren't shielded by his hood, and his eyes were of the strangest color: a deep, rich gold that swirled like honey. Clary was half-tempted to sweep the head covering back so she could see more of him, certain that he only wore it to hide his beauty._

 _She had never seen anyone quite like him before, and embarrassedly, she thought, that the man must have been a mythical being—a faerie perhaps!—cursed and exiled from his realm…_

Abruptly, Clary reopened her eyes, shaking her head wildly. Good grief, she was a living cliché! There was no such thing as mythical beings, much less faeries. Certainly, she had read one too many fantasy books—

 _But you have to admit, he_ does _look…otherworldly,_ her smitten subconscious whispered insistently. Clary rolled her eyes at herself, but didn't have the heart to completely disagree.

In the last few days since she had first met him, she hadn't been able to pass a single minute without thinking about him _._ At first, it had been his looks that had intrigued her, but soon enough, she began to realize that it was actually so much more, something that went past the stage of appearances—though her artistic eye maintained a deep appreciation for that, too.

She couldn't pinpoint what it was, but all she knew was that there was just _something_ about him. Something about his charming wit, albeit sardonic at times, that both frustrated her and left her gaping in speechless awe. Something about his golden eyes, both mesmerizing and aged-looking, that gave off the impression that he could see past her royal image and reach into the depths of her soul.

He was definitely a one of a kind, bearing a handsome and ethereal-like mien that many would fawn over, but shouldering the weight of a dark past. Often, she wondered about who he was before he became a gladiator. From his behavior and speech, she could tell that he wasn't one of the mundane commonfolk. There was too much grace, pride, eloquence, intelligence and at times, chivalry in him that betrayed his anarchic character.

He was an enigma—one whose mystery she sought to unlock. The more she thought of him, the more curious she became. Who was he? What was his tale? What was his _name_?

"Are you just going to stand there all night and marvel at my beauty or are you going to come over here and join me?" His tone was wry, as was the smirk that currently adorned his handsome features.

Clary's cheeks turned a dark shade of crimson at being caught staring, and she silently wished that her auburn tresses were down so that she could conceal her flaming cheeks behind it like a curtain. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders at a poor attempt of nonchalance, then she crossed the short distance between them, plopping herself down gracelessly next to her male companion.

He let out a low chuckle, and she subconsciously leaned closer to him, causing their shoulders to brush. Clary stifled a smile as she heard his sharp intake of breath. Risking a peek at him, she lifted her gaze from the ground, a soft gasp escaping her lips when she found him already looking at her.

No, not looking— _observing_ her, she corrected herself. She could recognize the difference between just-looking and observing, for she often did the same with him too.

But whereas she was genuinely curious about him, his looks were often more cautious. Clary found it strange, considering most would see him as more of a threat to her than she was to him. He was almost an entire foot taller than her _and_ he was a well-trained gladiator, after all.

He gave her a tentative smile. "Are you all right? You know, you've been standing there for almost an hour just staring out at the lake. I was half-convinced that you were in some sort of a trance. What were you thinking about?" He asked in a smooth, velvety voice.

For a beat, Clary felt herself relax. No one she knew of could speak in such a manner that both charmed and calmed her. Her father, of course, had a voice that could charm people into doing things he wanted, but his sentences were often a command and his questions a demand. Clary didn't like hearing him speak, least of all, to her.

While most would relish in being showered the attention from their fathers, she preferred it when she was being ignored. If she could be granted any power, invisibility would have surely been her choice.

"Milady?"

Clary blanched when she felt him nudging her gently in the side. It wasn't discomfort that came from his touch. It was his _question_. She came out here because she had wanted to forget everything that had happened at home, but he was forcing her to face the reality she so desperately wanted to run away from—even if he didn't know it.

"A lot of things," she finally said in a small voice. "I… My fa-father…" Her voice shook, and she swallowed the lump in her throat painfully.

Unexpectedly, the gladiator wrapped his arm around her and gently pulled her into him. Clary froze for a moment, caught between her emotions and constrictive self-doubt. Other than her brother and Simon, she had never been held by another man before. As innocent as the gesture was, she didn't know what to do.

As if realizing that he had made a mistake, he made a move to retract his arm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you—"

"No!" Clary was startled by the sound of her own voice. She looked up to see the gladiator, an equally shocked and conflicted expression on his face. She shook her head and buried her face into his shoulder, deciding that she didn't care about propriety or decorum at the moment. She just wanted to held by someone—by him. "Please don't move away."

Clary sensed his hesitation, but he eventually gave in and put his arm around her, his touch, much like his voice, calming her. "I'll do anything you want," he murmured as if he were disclosing a secret, one that he hadn't intended for her to hear. Somehow, it only made her smile…until she realized the reason that had led them to this very situation.

It was a very sobering reason: _her father_.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, eyes lowered to the ground when she pulled away from him. "I shouldn't trouble you with my problems. I'm a terrible burden, aren't I?"

The gladiator tucked two of his fingers underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "No, no you're not," he told her softly. "You can tell me anything. I'm here for you. We're… _friends_ , aren't we?" The way he said the word was tentative and gentle, as if he meant to sound assuring, but even though that was what she thought she wanted with him, it didn't quite fit. Were they friends?

Clary pulled away from him, sniffling. "But I don't even know your name. I don't know anything about you." She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly as she rocked herself back and forth. She realized how childish and selfish she was being, but she didn't care. Why should she offer something private about her if he refused to give her the same treatment?

A name—that was all she wanted from him.

As if on cue, the gladiator's face contorted in dread and his golden eyes took on a sort of misty look, as if he were thinking hard about something. "How about this? You tell me what's bothering you and I'll...deliberate on what I _can_ tell you?" He finally said.

It was an extremely reluctant negotiation on his part but Clary took it anyway. She wanted to see how far things could go between them—if they could become… _friends_ —so she gave him an infinitesimal nod. Still, she didn't understand why it was so hard for him to just tell her. Was his name really that horrible? It couldn't possibly be something as bad as Barry, Stuart, or Nigel, could it? Not that she had anything personal against those names…

"The other night," Clary began, "When my brother came to find me in the stables, I ended up having a serious 'talk' with my father." She pressed her cheek against her bent knees, facing away from him as she spoke. "Not that every other conversation I have with my father wasn't serious, but, this one—this one really bothered me.

"He was talking about my future—the future that he had already planned out for me. He told me that I am to be wed by the end of the year…that he's already arranged for suitors for my hand-in-marriage, and that I'm supposed to spend time with them, practice on how to become a good, subservient _wife_. He said they'll be here by _tomorrow_." Clary couldn't help the slight falter in her tone at the end.

Acknowledging her future out loud made it all the more _real_ and she was scared. The prospect of having to marry a stranger and live in another kingdom, away from everything and everyone she knew, was absolutely terrifying. What if the man she married turned out to be even worse than her own father?

"Did you say anything to him? Anything at all to sway his decision?" The gladiator's voice was sharp as he spoke, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the vein straining in his temple. His golden eyes burned with an emotion Clary recognized and often associated with him: anger. But why was he angry with her?

"You didn't think that I've tried?" She hadn't meant to yell at him, but the look on his face only served to add fuel to her own short temper. What right did he have to be angry at her? She hadn't done anything wrong. She'd confided in him, hoping for a smidge of comfort, and he'd thrown it all back to her face.

"He wouldn't listen—He NEVER listens to me! He's always had this crazy notion that women are meant to serve men, to yield under their power." Images flashed at the back of her mind as she spoke. She saw herself protesting against her father, but her efforts had succeeded in doing nothing but getting a rise out of him…and ten bloody whips to the back. "What makes you think that anything I say would make a difference?"

"Well, it isn't right! Someone should talk to him—"

"This isn't about right or wrong. Even if there was someone to speak up for me, do you think he'll listen? With my father, whatever he believes in is right, therefore, whatever he says, goes. No questions asked," Clary interjected hotly. "And besides, who do you think could be powerful enough to make him see things differently?"

She glared at him condescendingly. " _You?_ A gladiator who refuses to give his name, who calls himself Shadowhunter? I don't think so!"

* * *

Jace could only manage an icy glare when Clary turned the situation on him. To be fair, he didn't know what had made him so upset and angry in the first place—hearing that Clary was to be married to another man, that Valentine had played a part in arranging it, or both.

Either way, he could see how stupid and blind he was to let his sympathy for her back in the stables dictate his decision tonight. He should have just stayed the hell away.

"Well, that's just great, princess. Be a brat when you're upset. Take it out on me when all I'm trying to do is help you. Maybe that's the reason why your father won't listen to you anyway—Because all you ever do is demand for things like a spoilt child. It's my business whether I tell you my name or not. Don't use that as a weapon against me just because you can't find anything else to vent on," he seethed, his face turned into a cold mask.

Clary returned his glare with a stubborn and furious glower of her own before scrambling to her feet. He watched with a sigh as she untied the ropes binding both Wayfarer and The Countess to the tree, her movements jerky and angry. It also didn't escape his attention that a few tears were trailing down her cheeks in rapid streams, made even more obvious when she tried to swipe them away. His heart itched with need, strangely, to comfort her despite the fact that _she_ had been the one to anger _him_.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he muttered uselessly underneath his breath. He shook his head when she paid him no heed. _Stubborn girl. Stupid girl._

Sighing, Jace leaped to his feet and mounted Wayfarer before Clary could get onto her own horse. He wouldn't put it past her to leave him behind—while dragging Wayfarer along with her—just to get away from him. She was young, and as their past encounters had shown, reckless and a little too emotional for her own good. He blatantly ignored the growl that came from her, and instead, offered her his hand to help her up her horse.

"Come on then," he said, while holding the reins in his other hand. Not to his surprise, Clary only swatted it away.

"I can do it on my own. I don't need your help!" She protested, adamant as always.

Jace glared down at her. "For God's sake, Princess! Stop being so impossible!"

"Well, you're hardly in the position to say things like that to me! Can you even hear yourself? YOU are impossible!"

"Fine, suit yourself then," Jace growled, getting increasingly impatient with her tantrum.

He watched as Clary, with some struggling on her part, finally managed to mount her horse, then took off without saying another word to him. He rolled his eyes. The princess, when in a foul mood, was a real displeasure to be around, he realized. Why did he think it a good idea to come with her in the first place?

When they finally reached the stables, Clary wasted no time in dismounting The Countess before taking her leave. She didn't even regard him with so much as a proper farewell as she stormed off, leaving him to stare after her with a bemused expression.

Yes, she was definitely one hell of a spitfire. And Jace was, regretfully, besotted with her.

* * *

 _ **A/N: So, some changes made here and there: I've lengthened the interaction between Clary and Jace, and yes, added in a new horse... I know it seemed romantic and all in the original when I wrote them sharing Wayfarer, but when I was revising the story, I decided to change it up a little. Clary and Jace are nowhere near the stage of 'I trust you enough to get on a horse with you and wrap my arms around your waist', no matter how attracted they are to each other. They're living in a conservative era, so as far as their interactions go, they will do their absolute best to give each other a respectable space to breathe in (unless they're clouded by their emotions, or are in need of a comforting touch). So...there.**_

 ** _Anyway, just a heads-up. My updates are going to take slightly longer than I initially thought because there's quite a bit that needs revising in the later chapters. Plus, I'm working and I have to juggle Uni at the same time. FF cannot be at the top of my to-do list because life comes first._**

 ** _Thank you to all who are following this story so far. And as always, reviews will be appreciated! xoxo!_**


	8. Chapter 7: The Price Of Defiance

_**Author's Note:** Massive chapter ahead. Fair warning, there's some violence in one of the scenes...but nothing graphic, in my opinion. Hope you guys enjoy this update!_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 7: THE PRICE OF DEFIANCE**

 **September 11, 508**

Clary sat unmoving in front of her vanity, her emerald green eyes staring blankly into the mirror as her handmaiden, Isabelle, fussed over her hair. It was a normal routine for her—wake up at seven a.m., shower and get dressed, then go through a rigorous chain of etiquette lessons, dance lessons, and whatever else her father saw fit.

Truth be told, she had never seen much use for such _activities_ , but she knew better than to voice her dissent to her father, lest she be on the receiving end of his punishments.

Having no compulsion to act like a proper lady at the moment, predominantly due to her lack of a proper audience, meaning her father, she yawned loudly, not even bothering to cover her mouth as her eyelids began to slowly droop.

The entire night had been nothing short of hell for her as she laid awake, tossing and turning restlessly in bed. No amount of willpower could coax her into the land of sweet dreams as her mind kept drifiting to her father, her suitors, her arranged marriage, and above all, her— _the_ golden gladiator.

Clary scrunched her nose and sighed. When Shadowhunter—she absolutely hated calling him that, but had come to terms that it was a better choice than referring to him as 'the gladiator'—had spoken coldly to her last night, she had been consumed with anger beyond reason. Admittedly, it was probably an overreaction on her part, but it _was_ justified, wasn't it?

It was _him_ who had instigated _her_ first, not the other way around. _Him_ who should bear the fault, not her.

 _That's highly debatable_ , her conscience, ever the logical one, argued. _He was only trying to emphatize with you. He_ is _right, you know. You were acting like a childish brat. He doesn't owe you anything, least of all his name._

Clary rubbed the spot in between her eyebrows tiredly. She didn't know why she was thinking about him this much. After all, she was aware of the extent of her feelings for him. There was physical attraction of course, but she was mostly drawn to the way he treated her when he wasn't occupied with being indifferent; moments when he was thoughtful and chivalrous, and a gentleman. But were those enough reasons to warrant his constant presence on her mind?

Her self-pride certainly didn't think so. Why should she let thoughts of him torment her when there was a possibility that he didn't even reciprocate her feelings? He had made it very clear from their first encounter, and several other moments thereafter, that he didn't like her father. What if that dislike extended to her as well?

Feeling the signs of a headache, something that she wasn't willing to put up with on top of her mounting exhaustion, Clary pitched forward in her seat and buried her face into the vanity, eliciting a loud thump when her head hit the desk.

"Clarissa Adele Morgenstern!" Isabelle screeched, an unpleasant high-pitched sound that grated on Clary's ever strained nerves.

" _What?_ "

"Sit up straight this instant! I spent hours on your makeup and—"

" _Will you stop shrieking like a banshee?_ "

"Clarissa—"

" _Let me sleep! Please—_ " Clary was aware that she was whining but she was too exhausted to care. " _Five minutes. That's all I'm asking for._ "

Isabelle huffed. "No can do, Clary. Your hair looks like a bird's nest this morning—" She yanked on Clary's hair harshly to prove her point. "And _I_ only have twenty minutes left to make you look decent. Sit. Up. Now _._ "

Clary fought the urge to start pouting and reluctantly did as Isabelle asked, knowing that if she were to protest, she would only risk incurring the handmaiden's wrath.

The moment she opened her eyes though, fatigue and stress weighing down on them, she was instantly reminded of her restless night. Of _him_. The compulsion to hit her head against the table—hard enough to send her spiralling into consciousness, and _hopefully_ , a coma—was strong, but she held herself back from acting on a whim.

"Isabelle." Her voice came out in a tired rasp and she cleared her throat quietly. "Izzy," she tried again.

"Hmm?"

Clary winced as a sharp pain lanced through her scalp. It wasn't the first time that she wished she had been born with straight hair.

"Sorry," Isabelle said, not really meaning it. She finally set the brush down on the vanity and began to maneuver Clary's thick red curls into an elegant French bun. "What is it, Clary?" She prompted, noting her silence.

Clary fidgeted with her fingers as she contemplated her words. How was she going to go about asking her handmaiden for her opinion without telling her about… _him_? Technically, it wouldn't be the worst thing she could ever do. Izzy was one of the very few and closest friends she had, next to Simon. In fact, she was probably the _only_ female friend she had.

But somehow, she still felt the need to keep her run-ins with Shadowhunter to herself. The last thing she wanted to do was to hear her friend's disapproval and lecturing about how she should stay away from him, given her situation with her impending suitors and arranged marriage—even if she didn't have the inclination to listen to anyone's advice.

"Spit it out, Clary," Isabelle nudged her, none too gently. "You look like you're about to keel over if you don't get whatever you need to say off of your chest."

"If you're trying to say that I look terrible, then point taken." Clary rolled her eyes, then stiffened when Isabelle narrowed her eyes at her warningly in the mirror.

"Fine. I have a…hypothetical question," she said slowly.

"Okay?"

Clary took a deep breath. "Say you meet this person you didn't even expect to meet in the first place, much less run into later. You find this person 'interesting', for lack of a better word, and want to know more about him, but every time you ask him for his real name, he flat-out refuses to tell you. You find yourself thinking about this person a lot but you don't know if you should just ignore it and forget him. Or you just… _can't_. What do you do?" She finished her rambling in one whole breath and was practically panting by the end of it.

Isabelle's eyes widened at first before her lips curled into a smirk only a she-devil could muster. " _He? Him? His?" She_ made it a point to drawl out every single word in a suggestive tone.

Clary rolled her eyes, regretting the fact that she'd let herself walk straight into Isabelle's trap. Why couldn't she have used the word "she"? Isabelle, with all her perceptive glory, would never let her live it down, and she was already driven so far up the wall with all her problems.

"It's _hypothetical_ ," she grumbled, silently praying that her blush wouldn't betray her like it normally would.

"Of course it is! I wasn't accusing you of anything," Isabelle feigned hurt, though it wasn't as effective given the fact that she was smirking the entire time. However, that smirk soon faded. "But you don't need me to answer your question, Clarissa. There's nothing you can do but to try harder to forget him. You're getting married," she said in a serious tone, almost as if she were scolding her.

"I didn't forget that, but thank you for the reminder, Isabelle," she retorted with as much sarcasm as she could muster, then regretted it almost immediately when she realized how alike she sounded to _him_. What was he doing to her?

"I didn't mean to sound harsh, Clary," Isabelle said in a softer, much more apologetic tone. "But you can't argue with your father…"

Clary made a disgruntled noise at the back of her throat but Isabelle didn't waver. If anything, the look she gave her grew fiercer.

"If things were different, if you weren't a princess, I would have supported you and told you to go for it. But you are, so I can't. Defying the king is to sign a death wish. He's already hurt you. If he finds out you're in a relationship with someone else…someone you shouldn't be with, I doubt that he would hesitate to kill you both. I'm only saying this because I care. I don't want to lose my friend." She placed her hand on Clary's shoulder and squeezed it gently.

Clary, who had been studiously looking down at her lap, finally stole a glance at Isabelle from over her shoulder, finding genuine concern and a silent apology lingering her handmaiden's brown-almost black eyes.

"I know," she breathed as if it were a sigh of defeat. "I know," she repeated, this time trying to convince herself.

Isabelle was right, of course. It didn't even matter who Shadowhunter was; she had to get over him. It would never work out, not unless Hell were to freeze over and animals could suddenly talk. Regardless of what she wanted, he was a gladiator. Life in the arena was a constant occupational hazard… He could as easily get killed in combat or even in training. And given his level of prowess, his potential to become something far greater in the years to come, there was an even slimmer chance that her father would ever free him from the arena.

Men like him were a prize, but not for her to behold. She could admire him all she wanted, but he would always be out of her reach. Unattainable.

"There," Isabelle said, smiling at her through the mirror. "You look beautiful. I think your father and suitors would approve."

Clary gave her a tight smile and murmured a quiet thanks. Isabelle might have intended for it to sound comforting, but it only served to aggravate the queasy feeling in her stomach. She pressed her hand against her lower abdomen, hoping for the ache to dull, before half-heartedly inspecting her look for the day.

She was wearing more make-up than she normally did, kohl drawn over her eyelids, blush accentuating the delicate contours of her high cheekbones—the only physical trait she inherited from her father—and dark red lipstick painted on her rosebud mouth. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tamed into a series of complicated braids and knots only a person of Isabelle's finesse could manage. She was beautiful, but she also looked older than her actual age.

Clary sighed. "Okay, let's get this over and done with."

* * *

 **September 14, 508 _(part I)_**

Three days later, Clary found herself staring blankly into space—not that she was ever remotely attentive of the real world around her anyway, for she so often disappeared into her own mind. Though admittedly, she had been living in her own world more than the real one as of late, if only to bask in the brief respite it offered.

At the moment, she was sprawled across the plush red divan on the first floor of the royal library, mindlessly tracing random patterns in the air with her finger.

Clary had always enjoyed the solace she found in the library, tucked away amongst the thousands of tomes buried there, like hidden treasure waiting to be unearthed. It was her hallowed sanctuary, untainted by her father's touch, and therefore, unlike most other rooms in the palace, it had a warm and homely atmosphere.

 _Well, it won't be home for you any longer now, would it? Not if your father has anything to say about it,_ her conscience whispered.

She rolled her eyes and dropped her hand, frowning up into the quiet space. An intricate crystal chandelier dangled from the seven-story high marble ceiling that was bedecked with murals of sunrises and sunsets, illuminating the room with a bright and inviting orange glow. Rows and rows of books beckoned to her from where they were neatly lined on the colossal bookshelves, each one exuding its own power—not like the one her father carried, but rather, something far greater, she thought: the power of knowledge and…distraction.

People like her brother Jonathan could never quite understand her love for literature—not that she hadn't tried explaining it to him. When they were growing up, their mother would often encourage them to read, but Jonathan always ended up making a face and running off with the excuse that he had something 'better' to do. Her love for her brother was no big secret, but his inaneness when it came to her sacred pastime often drove her up a wall. She wished he could understand, but she digressed.

After days of feeling asphyxiated by her overbearing father and equally obnoxious suitors, she was eager to find escape into the realm of fantasy that her books offered her. Unfortunately, none of that magic happened today.

Clary plucked the book from where it was lying open on her stomach and settled her gaze on the first paragraph of the prologue. The musky scent emanating from the pages of the old romance book in her hands was familiar, but absent of its usual comforting peace.

She gripped the book harder, scowling. Each time she tried to concentrate on the words gracing the pages, she found them jumbling around instead of stringing themselves together to form coherent sentences. It was absolutely vexing.

Too many times today she had begged God to help her clear her mind, to empty her thoughts of her worries, her fears, her insecurities, of her imminently bleak future, but it was hopeless. They kept infiltrating her mind like a horde of pernicious parasites, and were beginning to tear her apart from the inside. She tossed the book down again and huffed.

As far as her suitors went, Clary couldn't ignore the blatant distaste she had for them. They were overly haughty and boastful, and none could hold a conversation with her without infusing talks about politics and how their kingdoms were faring economically—topics that she clearly had no interest in listening to whatsoever.

It also didn't help that all three of them were much, _much_ older than her. Half the time, she had to swallow down the urge to vomit when they tossed their predatory, lustful glances in her direction, thinking that it would do the job in wooing her. Clary had not been impressed in the least, but tried her best to maintain the disposition of a gracious (read: tolerant) lady to her guests—the operative word here being 'tried'.

It all came to a boiling point last night when one of her suitors, Lord Axel Mortmain, a man old enough to father _her father_ , had tried to cop a feel out of her while they were dancing. Safe to say, it had not ended well. The Morgenstern temper that Clary had tried so hard to conceal broke loose as she kneed old Mortmain in the groin, quite possibly ridding him of his ability to beget a child in the future—not that he was deserving of one considering his deplorable manners, the perverted old pig.

Fortunately, the other two suitors had been smart enough to realize that even they, too, had worn out their welcome, and had practically sprinted through the doors and hightailed for home, leaving Clary safe and sound. _For now._

She knew that her father was far from pleased with her misconduct, but shockingly, he hadn't said a word or done anything about it yet. It made Clary extremely uneasy and afraid. Nothing good ever came out of a quiet Valentine. It meant that he was planning something, one that she could only imagine would be far worse than anything she had already faced.

"Clarissa Adele Morgenstern!" Her father's rich and commanding voice boomed, causing Clary to almost roll off of the divan.

Her heart racing, she bolted upright almost immediately, her hands flying to her curls and smoothing them down in an effort to make herself look presentable for her father—not because she actually bothered to, but because she would be on the receiving end of his wrath if she didn't.

 _Oh God. Think of the Devil and he shall appear,_ she thought with a gulp.

"Good afternoon, Princess Clarissa." A deep, suave voice—not belonging to her father—greeted her.

Clary looked up, her facial expression betraying surprise when she saw a well-dressed man standing next to her father. He looked to be around her brother's age, and was handsome, with dark hair and charcoal-black eyes. But despite the polite smile he wore on his face, she could see traces of coldness and detachment in his dark orbs—traits that she often associated with her own father. Even as he acknowledged her, she could practically _feel_ him calculating her, judging her. It was like being stripped bare in a vast and windy space; Clary felt a cold shiver run through her.

"Clarissa, this is Sebastian Verlac, the newly crowned king of Alicante," her father told her in his usual dry, impassive tone. "Do you remember him? The two of you used to play together as children. Before we moved to Idris," he added, his sharp, penetrative gaze pressing her to say that she _did_ remember him.

Unfortunately, Clary's mouth and mind were not on the same page, and she found herself speaking against her own volition.

"I apologize, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid I do not remember," Clary said, bowing her head in meek apology. Her tone sounded contrite, yet on the inside, she felt anything but. While Clary was inclined to give people she'd only met a chance to prove themselves before passing her own judgment, she didn't feel that way towards Sebastian. Something about him just rubbed her the wrong way.

"It is a wonderful pleasure, however, to finally meet you again," Clary exclaimed more enthusiastically when her father shot her his infamous threatening glare.

Sebastian chuckled. "Likewise, it is a pleasure to meet with you again, Clarissa," he said as he reached for her right hand and planted a soft kiss on the back of it. His lips were uninvitingly cold and she fought against her instinctive reaction to shiver a second time. "And please, call me Sebastian. If we're to get to know each other better, then I'd prefer it if you would address me by my first name. I reserve the use of formalities for the _commoners_ —and you, m'dear, are not one of them."

Clary gave him a tight smile and bit her tongue from making a feisty comeback. She loathed it when people like Sebastian referred to the commonfolk as 'commoners', much less in a tone that suggested that they were equivalent to filth. She would prefer the company of those he classified as 'commoners' to the royalty and aristocrats any day.

She found it especially atrocious that despite their so-called distinguished level of education, a good handful of them could do with a little more grooming when it came to humility and respect. And of course with her luck, she had to be roped into the company of a self-absorbed ignoramus.

"As you wish, _Sebastian_ ," she said, trying not to let her anger seep into her tone.

"Well, Clarissa, Sebastian is here to spend the rest of the day with you. I expect you to shower him with grace and hospitality during his visit as a refined princess _should_ ," her father interjected, a poisonous warning implied in his last sentence.

He looked at her straight in the eye, as if daring her to challenge his will. Clary would have rolled her eyes at him, but she knew that her father's threats didn't come empty. _Obey me or you'll suffer the consequences_ , his eyes read.

"Yes, Father," Clary replied, hating how much she sounded like a dutiful daughter—Valentine's dutiful daughter, to be exact.

As much as it pained her to admit it, she did _love_ her father. But for the most part, she resented that he held so much control over her. There were many times when she wished that her father would wake up and see the error of his ways, but it had occurred to her, deep, deep, _deep_ down, that it was hopeless to hope for him to change. A leopard can't change his spots, and Valentine happened to be a man who was very rooted in his values and beliefs, however perverse they may be. Still, she continued to hope for a miracle.

Valentine stared at her for several seconds longer than necessary, then turned to Sebastian, this time with a bright grin that looked exceedingly unnatural on his face. Clary found it frightening for that very reason itself—her father _never_ smiled, not truly.

"I expect to hear good things about you two after your date," he chirped. Another smile was exchanged between her father and Sebastian—one that was filled with conspiratorial intent—before he finally took his leave.

"Very well, Clarissa. Shall we?" Sebastian offered her his arm in a gentlemanly gesture, and Clary, though reluctant, took it graciously.

* * *

"The barracks? But why are you taking me there?" Clary asked as they ventured through one of the many tunnels beneath the Arena Dumont, which, as Sebastian had only recently confirmed, would eventually lead them to the gladiator barracks.

Sebastian was quiet for a long time as he walked ahead of her, his hands clasped together behind his back. Clary could have sworn that he was too busy grinning to himself to deign her with an answer, so she rushed to keep up with his purposeful pace, even though the only thing she wanted to do was to turn in the opposite direction and exit the Arena—a place which reeked of the foulest stench of blood, gore and death—altogether.

"Sebastian?" Clary was practically raising her skirts at this point and cursing the heeled shoes that were impeding her gait.

Sebastian sighed before speaking. "You see, Clarissa, Alicante is a big supporter of the games, much like Idris. I thought it would be nice to see how the gladiators here are faring with their training," he said, turning his head just the slightest for her to catch his smirk. "Besides, when we're married, I expect you to be able to share my interests in the games."

Clary paused in her tracks as a surge of anger rose within her. She clenched her fist, her mouth practically itching with the urge to correct him. She had only been in his company for less than an hour and he was already presumptuous that she would end up as his wife.

 _You mean IF, not WHEN,_ she thought with a merciless glare to the back of Sebastian's head. _I will never marry someone with the likes of you. You're no better than the other three before you._

"Are you coming, Clarissa?" He called her over his shoulder, as if he were talking to his pet dog.

The anger in her rose by a tenfold. Was this how he would treat her _if_ she were to marry him? Speaking to her without even turning to look at her? It was exactly the kind of behavior Clary found most galling, that it took every bit of self-control she had to not remove her shoe and fling it at her suitor's obnoxiously large head.

 _Deep breaths, Clary. He isn't worth your anger. Just a few more hours till you can be rid of him—hopefully, for good. Deep breaths._

Clary grit her teeth before stomping forward after Sebastian. She couldn't believe her luck. First, three old men who could barely keep their eyes and hands to themselves, and now a younger, more refined-looking man whose entire first impression was tarnished the moment he opened his mouth. Were these the only sort of men who existed that were 'eligible' for her to marry? What terrible misdeed had she committed in her life to deserve such a fate?

"Ah! Here we are," Sebastian said cheerfully when the entrance to the barracks finally came into view. He turned to face her this time and offered her his arm. "Come, Clarissa. Best if we don't dawdle."

Clary contemplated playing dumb and walking past him without taking his arm, but she knew that he wouldn't take her rejection too kindly. So swallowing back her pride, she wrapped her hand around his forearm and acknowledged him with a stiff smile.

"No more dawdling then," she said with a stony expression.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Princess Clarissa," the two main guards at the entrance greeted them as they passed.

Clary nodded her head in greeting while Sebastian merely ignored them, immediately pulling her towards the field where the gladiators were busily training, some sparring in hand-to-hand combat while others were practicing with wooden replicas of weapons used in actual matches: spears, maces, swords, tridents, and a whole other array she couldn't identify.

Clary herself was surprised to find that she was intrigued by the sight. It was a whole other experience when the gladiators weren't out trying to spill each other's blood. She imagined that it was how a military unit would look like when they trained, except they didn't have a drill instructor telling them what to do, just a handful of guards to maintain order.

Beside her, Sebastian was chuckling. "You look like an excited child."

"I've never seen gladiators train before," she said, suppressing her hundredth retort about how she wasn't anything like a child.

To quell her vexation, she unlinked her arm from his and took several steps away from him, rolling her eyes when she was certain that he couldn't see her face. Unfortunately, Sebastian was either oblivious or stupid as he continued to follow her closely from behind—so _close_ , in fact, that she could practically feel him breathing down her neck!

As she turned to tell him to back off—politely, of course—he grinned down at her and gripped her by the waist, as if he were placing his stamp on his property. Clary's jaw clenched and she bit back the growl that was threatening to escape her.

"Let's get a little bit closer, shall we?" Sebastian suggested, the double meaning obvious in his tone.

 _I'd rather not,_ Clary thought irritatedly. _The ideal situation would be for you to let go of me and return to whichever hole you came from._

But instead of speaking her mind, she nodded impassively and followed his lead.

Her eyes scanned the length of the field, eager to find something that would help to take her mind off of her less than welcoming situation. As fate would have it, it didn't take long for her to single him out—

 _Shadowhunter_ , she thought when her gaze landed on him.

Miraculously, her anger faded away, only to be replaced by a mixture of excitement and nervousness that she had only recently come to associate with said gladiator's presence.

He was currently engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with a dark-haired boy, and though he wasn't exactly facing her, she knew by heart that it was him. She recognized him from the way he moved, with grace and precision that none of his peers possessed.

As if hearing her silent pleas for him to turn around, he did, confirming her suspicions that it was indeed him. Under the sun's glare, he looked even more golden, the rich blond of his hair shining like a lion's mane. Sweat beaded the skin of his face and neck, glistening like dewdrops clinging to fresh blades of grass in the early morning. His strong, muscular body paraded his prowess as a fighter, a _warrior_ , and his limbs, taut with wiry muscles, moved with extreme cat-like grace, like a hunter's.

As Clary watched him lock horns with his fellow gladiator, she felt her excitement grow and her artistic fingers twitch with the need for a pencil. How she desperately wished that she could capture him on paper! There was nothing more beautiful than to witness a person—Shadowhunter, in this instance—in his own element, with so much conviction in what he was doing.

It was the same conviction that she admired— _craved_ to possess, whether it came to her art or when she was in the same room with her father; she longed to procure the same self-confidence and surety Shadowhunter had.

 _Such a dreamer,_ her conscience chided her. _As if having confidence will help to deter your father's fists. Remember when you decided to open your mouth last week? Big mistake._

Before the horrid mental pictures could consume her, Clary quickly shook off her thoughts of her father and refocused her attention on Shadowhunter.

Presently, he had the dark-haired boy trapped in a devastating headlock, and was slowly beginning to wear him down. The boy, who looked to be just as strong, was noticeably fighting back, his arms thrashing about wildly in an attempt to get his sparring partner to loosen his hold. At a last ditch-attempt, the dark-haired boy managed to elbow the latter's abdomen hard, and Clary watched as Shadowhunter broke his hold, yet he swiftly recovered his momentum a second later, and landed a dropkick on his partner.

* * *

As Jace's feet connected with Alec's face, the latter staggered backwards a few steps, but otherwise managed to stay on his feet. The only signs of his disorientation showed—just barely—in the dazed look of his blue eyes.

Deciding to take advantage of his friend's momentary loss of bearings, Jace charged towards him and speared him to the ground. They both crash-landed, a tangled mass of limbs, curses and grunts. Sitting astride Alec's chest, Jace used his knees to pin the blue-eyed boy's arms to the ground, before manipulating his full body weight into an arm lock.

He smirked as he noticed Alec distinctly weakening, his face turning an unflattering shade of red from the force of his hold. It wasn't that he enjoyed watching his best friend's discomfort. Jace was simply smirking because he knew he was winning—again.

"Give up, Allie-boo?" He taunted smugly.

Alec glared at him weakly, just barely able to mouth the words "go to hell" around his clenched jaw.

Jace laughed, unaffected by the insult. "I don't know why you keep insisting on a rematch when you always end up losing to me anyway," he boasted when Alec's eyes suddenly rolled to the back of his head and his eyelids slipped shut, his entire body going slack. Jace's smirk faded into instantaneous concern.

"Alec?" He loosened his grip on Alec's throat and was about to shake him out of his unconsciousness when a bright flash of _red_ caught his eye—

A _red_ that blazed like a bewitching fire, making his heart beat faster than humanly possible. A fierce _red_ that should have looked out of place on a face as delicate as hers, but somehow didn't.

He had never given a second thought or look at the color red before her, and he didn't think he could be cavalier about it now.

Inadvertently relinquishing his hold on Alec and turning his head towards the source, Jace's eyes widened in surprise when he saw Clary standing only a couple of feet away—staring at _him_. He blinked his eyes, almost like a delirious wanderer in the desert, wondering if the image before him was merely a mirage.

Then his gaze drifted to the stranger beside her, forcing him to do another double take. If he had been imagining things, why would his mind conjure _him_ up?

Judging merely from the man's looks, he could tell that he was of royalty. His gaudy clothes and even more pretentious aura reeked of it. But that wasn't the reason for Jace's sudden, overwhelming urge to knock the man's teeth in and break his nose just for good measure—It was his _arm_ , and more specifically, _where_ it was placed.

The cretin had his arm wrapped possessively around Clary's slender waist, and he was looking down at her with a lecherous and wolfish grin.

The muscle in Jace's jaw jumped. Who the hell did he think he was to hold Clary like that…like she was his plaything? And worse, why wasn't she doing anything about it? Why was she letting him?

 _"He was talking about my future—"_ He suddenly remembered Clary saying, _"the future that he had already planned out for me. He told me that I am to be wed by the end of the year…that he's already arranged for suitors for my hand-in-marriage, and that I'm supposed to spend time with them, practice on how to become a good, subservient wife…"_

His golden eyes widened as he finally realized who the man was—someone he would _never_ be. He was Clary's suitor, the one of many vying for her hand in marriage.

 _No,_ Jace thought as a foreign pang of jealousy hit him. _No, no, no, no, no._

Abandoning his fighting stance altogether, he staggered to his feet and stared back at Clary, the intensity of her gaze on him almost enough to make him cave. He'd put two and two together but there were still questions floating around in his head.

Was this it? Had Clary agreed to marry this man? And if so, what were they doing here at the barracks?

Jace had been so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't even realize that Alec had crept up behind him, a smug expression on his face. Before he could properly react, his parabatai's hard, callused fingers seized his throat in a strong chokehold. One moment he was being lifted in the air, and the next, he was being slammed down forcefully onto his back.

"Give up, Jacey-poo?" Alec taunted him with a smirk.

Jace's only response was a groan. He looked up at Alec dazedly, as if he were in a drunken stupor. He had been caught so completely off-guard that he didn't even have time to prepare himself for the brute impact of that chokeslam. _God, it hurt—so much._ Even then, all his mind could think of was: _Where is she? Where's Clary?_

"Jace, are you okay?" Alec's worried voice asked him. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He asked as he held up several fingers in front of Jace's face.

"One?" Jace slurred, squinting his eyes in frustration. What was the matter with Alec? Why, oh why, couldn't he just keep his fingers still? It was hard enough to see as it is with his pounding headache! "No, six—no, wait! One?"

"Wonderful," came Alec's gritted response.

"Oh, I am wonderful, indeed," Jace said, feeling a sudden urge to start chuckling. So he did. "Do you know that you have two heads?"

"That's because you're concussed, you idiot." Alec muttered another soft curse to himself. "I'm so sorry, Jace." He sounded more rueful this time.

"Sorry?" Jace muttered as he pinched his eyes shut. "But I beat you?"

He heard Alec's exasperated sigh as he helped him to sit up. Jace groaned as the movement sent a sharp throbbing pain through his head. _Oh great God above, that hurt!_

"Oh, stop being a baby, Jace," Alec hissed.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are—Oh, why am I even arguing with you?" Alec scowled at him.

Jace's retort was cut off by the same flash of red, this time as it came bouncing into his vision. He smiled when he felt a few of those red tendrils tickling his neck, before _her_ hands, both small and smooth as silk, cupped his face. Even in his state of discombobulation, he knew who it was before she even opened her mouth.

 _She cares about me,_ he thought passingly.

"Shadowhunter! Hey, are you all right? How bad are your injuries? Are you going to pass out?" Clary spluttered anxiously.

Jace found himself squinting again until he was finally able to focus on a pair of emerald green eyes. Having lost his bearings completely, he grinned at her goofily.

"Hello there again, Milady Siren. I haven't seen you in a few days. I missed you. Did you miss me?" He asked, his voice sounding completely airy and unfamiliar to his own ears.

Clary's cheeks turned pink at his comment.

"You have a lovely blush, Princess," Jace continued to murmur.

He watched as his hand left its safe place on his knee and levitated towards Clary's face. He stroked her cheek with the back of it, reveling in the perfect smoothness of her skin.

 _So beautiful,_ he thought in awe of her.

His spell was broken, just barely, by another voice. Alec's voice.

"He has a concussion. I better take him to the infirmary—get him checked out," his parabatai said stiffly.

Jace imagined that his blue eyes were scrutinizing Clary with cold disdain, and he frowned. "Don't be rude, Alec," he spat in his parabatai's direction. "What did she ever do to you?"

"What…" Alec was stunned as he glanced from Jace to the princess, who looked to be just as surprised. "I'm not—"

"It's fine… _Alec_ ," Clary said with a sheepish smile. "Just let me help."

Alec opened his mouth to argue with Clary but seemed to think better of it when her smile turned into a glare.

Jace grinned. He was less inclined to argue with her when she glared at him, too.

"Come on then," Alec said gruffly as he maneuvered Jace's arm around his shoulder and dragged him up to his feet. Jace thought that Alec was being a bit rougher than necessary, but he let him be, and leaned into him for support.

It surprised him when Clary mimicked Alec's movements, bringing his other arm to wrap around her shoulders while her hand held him by his waist. What ever happened to propriety? He thought, recalling her conservative nature. She had refused to share a horse with him because of the inappropriate level of proximity it implied between them then, but now…now she was _holding_ him?

He turned his head to face her as she did the same, their faces mere centimeters apart. It was the closest she had ever been with him—physically—and his breath hitched when he inhaled her sweet scent.

 _Strawberries._ She smelt like strawberries.

"Shadowhunter?" Clary spoke his name quietly, a question poised on her lips.

For the first time since his concussion, Jace felt his consciousness slip through his haze, and a flicker of nervousness surged through him. This close to her, he could see every small mark and detail about her. The gold fleck in her right eye, the lightly-colored freckles scattered sparsely beneath her eyes and on her delicate nose…

"Let's go," Alec's stern voice insisted, effectively killing their moment.

Clary blushed again before she averted her eyes to the ground, forcing Jace to do the same. He swallowed deeply as the three of them took a step forward in unison… And Clary was suddenly yanked away from him harshly.

His golden eyes widened as his balance wavered, Alec quickly righting him. _What the absolute hell?_ He thought, his vision slowly clearing.

He turned to see Clary's suitor grabbing her with a furious scowl on his face.

"Clarissa, what, _pray tell_ , do you think you're doing?" The dark-haired man growled as he grasped her wrist with bruising force. Clary struggled against the man with a wince, but she was otherwise leveling him with an equally fierce glare.

"Let go of me, Sebastian! He's injured—I'm trying to help him get to the infirmary," she said, her voice surprisingly steely.

The man—Sebastian—was completely unmoved by her explanation. Instead, his grip on Clary noticeably tightened. She tugged and pulled against him, trying to get him to unhand her, her other hand curling into a fist as she pounded away against his chest.

"Let go of me, Sebastian! LET GO!"

Sebastian's cold obsidian eyes dilated, and for a split second, it looked almost as if his black irises had taken up the entire space in his eyes, the whites completely obscured from sight. Clary gasped, and before any of them could process what was happening, Sebastian's large hand landed on her cheek, the sound of the slap echoing like the ricochet of a bullet.

Jace's senses rushed back to him in a single gush of air and his golden eyes fell on Clary, who was clutching her injured cheek, tears streaming from her eyes.

His eyes specifically drifted over to the large red imprint on her cheek, and all of a sudden, his vision turned red. He whipped his head round sharply and glowered at the reprehensible man who had so boldly assaulted the princess and left his mark on her.

As their gazes connected, a satisfied and arrogant smirk stretched across the fiend's face, and that was all it took for Jace before all hell broke loose.

With a feral growl, he tackled Sebastian to the ground, raining down angry punches on him while the latter held his arms up, shielding his face in a cowardly act of defense.

"FIGHT BACK! Fight back, you coward!" Jace yelled, his fists brutal and unrelenting. In the distance, he could make out Clary shouting at him to stop but he didn't listen. Rage thrummed through his body, sheer adrenaline fueling his unabated onslaught.

 _How dare that piece of filth touch her! How dare he lay his hands on an innocent woman and expect no reprisal for such an immoral act!_

"Shadowhunter! Stop! STOP—PLEASE!"

After what felt like only mere seconds later to Jace, strong hands came forward to wrest him away from Sebastian. Undaunted, he fought back, his livid form thrashing about violently as he continued yelling at Sebastian, calling him a list of ineffable names that would have surely earned him a bar of soap to his mouth if his mother were still alive.

No, he corrected himself. His mother would have been proud of him. He had done nothing but defended the princess's honor. He did _good_.

"Shadowhunter," Clary's voice pleaded with him. Jace finally stopped struggling and looked at her, his only remorse stemming from her tear-streaked face. His angry scowl softened. It wasn't his first time seeing Clary cry, but it was the first time that she was doing it while looking scared _for_ him. "Stop fighting them. Please. _Please._ "

Jace's mouth fell open with a sigh, the muscles in shoulders loosening as if it were an admission of defeat. "Milady—"

"You should listen to her. She knows what she's talking about," Sebastian said as he rose back to his feet. Jace's eyes traveled to him, watching as he assumed his supercilious stance, his fathomless black eyes glaring daggers at him.

Sebastian swiped at the blood on his chin—that Jace had managed to inflict on the first punch—and marched up to him purposefully.

Remembering Clary's pleas, Jace didn't fight or shout obscenities at the black-haired man, but instead, channeled every last ounce of energy he had left in him into a death glare.

The fiend didn't even flinch. Instead, he drew his right arm back, and threw his fist into Jace's left cheek, causing his face to snap in the other direction.

Feeling his earlier injuries finally catching up with him, Jace's knees buckled, forcing him to rely on the guards to hold him up. His eyes clamped shut and his breathing grew heavy, a bitter groan forcing its way out through his clenched teeth. If his head had been throbbing before, the pain was a hundred times more agonizing now. And worse still, he was completely aware of it all: of his pain, of Sebastian, of Clary— _everything_. None of it was looking good at all.

"Tie him up over there!" Sebastian commanded, pointing to the wooden post by the corner of the field, near the prison cells.

Jace's breath hitched as the guards began to manhandle him, putting an excessive amount of aggression behind their actions. _Ironic._ He wasn't even fighting them!

 _Now_ he knew why Clary had been looking at him like that—as if she feared for him. She had known that he would be punished—punished _badly_.

Oh, why couldn't he have minded his own business? Why did he have to throw the first punch that cemented the inevitable hell that was now coming to him? Why, why, why?

 _Because I care,_ was the only thought he clung onto as he was flung forward to his knees, a fresh new wave of pain greeting the heavily grazed, bloodied skin. _I care._

* * *

Clary stood frozen in her spot, mouth agape, as the guards dragged Shadowhunter away from her. As they approached the wooden post, which looked weathered, chipped and splintered badly even from afar, they shoved him towards the ground, causing the gladiator's body to jerk and slump forward in pain. She felt herself wince, imagining the cuts that now marred his knees.

She watched mutely as Sebastian continued to bark orders at the guards, and like the obedient soldiers they were, they did as they were told, ruthlessly binding the gladiator's hands together with a pair of metal handcuffs, then viciously ripping his tunic away from his body until they laid in tattered shreds by his feet.

A fresh set of tears filled her eyes as the expanse of Shadowhunter's back was bared to her, and her heart pulsated violently in her chest. It was a dreadfully familiar sight, one she had found herself in so many times before, sans the handcuffs. Sebastian might not have her father's snow-white hair, but his dark eyes—the crazed, psychotic look in them—resembled the older king greatly.

 _"Do you know why I'm doing this, Clarissa?" She_ heard her father's voice bellow, the same question he always asked her before he dealt her the first of many excruciating blows. He never waited for her answer, and never hesitated to strike her when she whimpered. _"Don't! Don't look at me like that! I told you—I don't like beggars. You've always been a disappointment, Clarissa. That's why I'm punishing you."_

"Give him twenty lashes of the whip!"

Clary stumbled out of her thoughts when Sebastian roared at one of the guards.

There were times when she was grateful to be spared from her many awful flashbacks, but this was not one of those times. It was like waking up from a nightmare, only to be thrust back into an even uglier reality.

"NO!" Clary screamed as she unthinkingly ran towards Sebastian. She fell onto her knees by his feet, hugging his legs as she looked up at him with begging eyes. "Please don't do this, Sebastian! It's not his fault! He doesn't deserve this!"

Sebastian gave her a thoughtful look as he folded his arms across his chest. His eyes, however, spoke of an entirely different story. They were cold and forbidding, absent of human warmth.

"Hmm, you're absolutely right, my sweet Clarissa." He paused with a condescending scowl in her direction. Then, he turned to the guard with a cruel sneer.

"FORTY lashes of the whip ought to suffice!" He yelled.

A choked sob ripped from Clary's throat, and she tugged at Sebastian's legs doggedly, hoping that her desperate pleas would help swerve his rage-induced judgment. It didn't. Instead, he bent down towards her with a vexed sigh, and yanked a fistful of her hair back, unperturbed by the pleading look she gave him.

" _Please_ ," Clary hiccuped. Her father's voice echoed in her head, _"I don't like beggars,"_ but she ignored the voice. Shadowhunter shouldn't be one punished— _she_ should.

She was the one that had ran to him, not the other way around. She was the one who had acted without thought, touching him when she knew that she shouldn't have. She was the one who had talked back to Sebastian and triggered his rage. If only she had stopped long enough to think before making those reckless decisions, she could have stopped Shadowhunter from being thrown into the crossfire. It was all _her_ fault.

"You would do well to remember not to defy me," Sebastian whispered into her ear, his tone harsh. Clary whimpered when his grip on her hair tightened. "Consider this part of your training to be _my wife_. I do not take defiance lightly, and this is just a _gentle_ reminder for you in the future, should you choose to act against my wishes."

He pulled back, casting her another pitiless look, before shoving her off of him. Ignoring her cries of pain as she slammed into the ground, he yelled at the guard again.

"What the hell are you waiting for? You dare to defy me and you will get the same punishment as this _piece of filth_ here!"

Clary turned to the guard then, and gave him the same pleading look. She was shaking her head and muttering the word "no" over and over again, despite knowing how futile it was. She saw the fear in the guard's eyes. The same fear her father instilled into every single one of them. Valentine Morgenstern didn't issue empty threats—and neither did Sebastian Verlac, it would seem.

"I'm sorry," the guard mouthed at her before stepping forward, a thick leather bullwhip raised in his hand, poised to inflict pain and damage on the gladiator.

"Don't…"

Clary's heart stuttered the exact same time Shadowhunter inhaled a sharp breath through his nose, his body slumping even further against the post as the whip descended upon his back with a thundering crack.

Her chest ached as she watched his eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clench. She could only imagine how much it hurt; the blinding, stinging pain of his flesh being ripped open by the vicious object. A bloody gash had already begun to make its appearance on his back, and although Clary was only a helpless bystander, she swore that she could _feel_ his pain like it was her own. Like fire scorching her back, igniting a searing pain a hundred times worse than her father's belt—

And it was only the beginning.

The whip descended once more and Shadowhunter's body squirmed furiously with pain. Still, he didn't make a sound—no yell, no cry, no moan, no whimper. He only pressed his face into the wooden post with a strained look of agony, teeth grit and eyes squeezed completely shut. Even then, a sharp, piercing cry could be heard throughout the field—

Clary's cry.

* * *

The bitter crack of the whip went on and on, never abating, like an unremitting thunderstorm. Clary had long since lost count of the number of whiplashes inflicted on Shadowhunter. They seemed to come faster and faster, each one harder, more savage than the last.

Shadowhunter never made a sound, and she was scared— _terrified_ , that she would never hear him make a sound ever again, not when he looked this lifeless, a pale deadweight propped up against the wooden post.

"Stop. Please stop," Clary sniveled in between sobs. She was curled up in a fetal position, her alabaster face stained with tears as she rocked herself back and forth on the ground. She was willing him to open his eyes, willing and praying that God will let her see his golden eyes again. _Let him live. Let him wake up._

"STOP!" A fierce, deep voice commanded.

Silence encased the field as everyone, including Clary, turned to look at the interrupter. The whip slipped from the guard's hand and fell to the ground with a loud thunk, leaving nothing but the bloodied and battered form of the gladiator in its wake.

Jonathan emerged, his face molded into a look of rage and contempt. It wasn't a look he often wore on his face that Clary found it strange, alien almost, on him. He looked intimidating—save for their mother's eyes, he looked exactly like their father—and for once in her life, Clary felt frightened of him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jonathan demanded, his glare shifting between the guard and Sebastian.

"King Sebastian ordered me to—"

"I don't care what _Sebastian_ ordered you to do," Jonathan interrupted, his lips curled into disgust at the mere use of Sebastian's name. "He holds no power here. _I_ am the prince of Idris, the heir to the throne, therefore, you listen to _me_ ," he growled.

"Now, release this man and bring him back to his cell," Jonathan ordered, his voice crisp and steely, his glare unwavering.

Clary watched, her grief-stricken eyes never once blinking as one of the guards cautiously removed the handcuffs from Shadowhunter's hands, and another stepped forward to help carry his deadweight back to the cells.

She wanted to move, to call out for him, to _help_ him, but she couldn't. Her arms and legs felt leaden, and her voice was trapped underneath a thick layer of emotion. The longer she stared after him, his back possibly mangled beyond repair, she felt like dying herself. This was all _her_ fault.

 _My fault. My fault. My fault._

"Thomas." Clary barely registered her brother's voice. She looked at him, his green eyes, though softened as they looked at her, still terrified her. Despite knowing that he would never hurt her, she could still remember how enraged he had looked— _dangerous_ like their father.

"Take Clarissa back to her chambers immediately. Make sure that Isabelle is there and tends to my sister. And if necessary, get the doctor Magnus Bane to check on her. She looks to be in a shock," Jonathan said with a worried frown.

The kind servant Clary recognized to be her brother's aide, Thomas, bent down and gently lifted her up in his arms. One of his arms supported her back while the other braced her by the back of her knees. Although Clary was uncomfortable with the gesture of being held by a man who wasn't her brother, she was grateful; she didn't feel strong enough to hold herself up, much less walk back to the palace in her current state.

"Clary," Jonathan whispered, his hand now entangled in her unruly curls.

Where Sebastian had been vicious, wrenching her hair without reservation, her brother was gentle, offering her comfort and love. Clary relaxed, only minutely, as Jon planted a soft, brotherly kiss on her forehead.

"I'll see you tonight, baby sis. I promise."

* * *

Once his sister had left his line of sight, Jonathan whipped around dangerously to face Sebastian. As his green eyes met Sebastian's black ones, he felt the rage in his chest rekindle. "You! What the hell did you think you were doing?" He spat icily.

"Well, hello to you too, Prince Jonathan," Sebastian returned sarcastically, his emotionless onyx eyes giving away not even the slightest hint of regret. If anything he only looked annoyed, piqued even by Jonathan's presence. Just who did the man think he was? "And to answer your question, had I not thought that it was obvious, I was merely teaching the boy a lesson, giving him the punishment he so rightfully deserves for defying my authority."

Jonathan growled. He had no doubt that if he hadn't stepped in when he did, Sebastian would have made the guard whip the gladiator to death. "And what, _pray tell_ , did the man do to merit such a cruel punishment? To have him be whipped senseless and tortured half to death?" He demanded, raising his voice.

" _Man_? You call him a _man_?" Sebastian snorted as though Jonathan had just told him a joke. "Why, Prince Jonathan, I am sorely disappointed in you. That _man_ , as you so generously call him, is nothing more than a common scum! A disgusting vermin who thought he could lay his hands on me and get away with it scot-free! I only did what I did to restore the balance of _justice_."

A lazy, conceited smirk stretched across Sebastian's face. "By the way, you might want to be _grateful_ that it had been me bestowing the penalty on that low-life and _not_ your father. Now surely, had it been King Valentine, that criminal would have been hung, drawn and quartered, his remains promptly scattered all over the arena, or hung on display for all to see as a prime example for his act of defiance and for assaulting a member of royalty."

Jonathan fumed at his words. Like Clary, he had never been one to stand by and watch as people, slaves included, were abused for no good or justifiable reason. It unnerved him greatly. He believed that slaves were people born with the same rights as everyone else. They deserved to be treated like humans, not like dogs as his father and Sebastian made them out to be.

"Well, I don't believe that that man would have attacked you had you not provoked him. So tell me—what did you do to set him off then?" Jonathan countered, his voice hard.

" _If I may, Prince Jonathan._ " Another voice piped in.

Jonathan turned to the owner of the voice—a man with dark hair and brown eyes, who looked to be in his early forties. "And what is your name, Sir, if I may ask?" Jonathan inquired, maintaining the authority in his tone.

"My name is Michael. And the gladiator who was punished by King Sebastian belongs to me," the man answered in an even voice.

"Very well. Speak your tale, good sir."

"My gladiator, Shadowhunter, as most would know him—I've raised him since he was a little boy. He's reckless, I'll admit. But he's smart as well. He would never attack or physically respond to taunts from a figure of authority without a valid reason. And believe me, Your Highness, he had a very good reason for doing what he did."

Michael paused, and Jonathan nodded at him again, urging him to continue. "King Sebastian assaulted Princess Clarissa because he was upset that she was trying to help my gladiator. Shadowhunter merely stepped in to defend her honor and to prevent him from hurting her even further."

Jonathan's ears buzzed with rage. His jaw set, and against his better lack of self-restraint, he lunged towards Sebastian. His hands yanked his clothes viciously to the point of almost tearing it as he slammed Sebastian into a brick wall.

"YOU LAID YOUR HANDS ON MY SISTER?" Jonathan screamed. He was sorely tempted to smash Sebastian's face against the wall but he knew better than to let his anger consume him. He could practically hear his mother's disapproving voice: _Be the better man, son. Let him go._ _Let him go, Jon._

With an irate grunt, Jonathan released his grip on Sebastian's tunic, before shoving him away from him roughly. "Get out before I maim you where you stand. You've worn out your welcome. I don't ever want to see your filthy face around here anymore, and in case that's not clear enough for you, that also means I don't want you anywhere near my sister, or else—"

"Or else, what, Jonathan?" Sebastian interrupted coldly, his smirk now replaced by a dangerous and malevolent look. "You'll do well to remember your place, Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. I am the _king_ of Alicante while _you_ are nothing more than a prince—therefore, I'd watch my tongue if I were you. Lay your hands on me and I will personally send my army after you and your sister," he threatened vehemently.

"Don't you dare—"

"Like I said—Remember your place _,_ " Sebastian cut in sharply. "Had it not been for my late father and our troops in Alicante, your father wouldn't have been able to claim sovereignty over Idris and _you_ would have been nothing more than a commoner, exiled from your own homeland. Is that what you want?" He asked, jabbing his finger repeatedly into Jonathan's chest.

"I don't care about royalty. I don't care if you throw me out into the streets. You just stay the hell away from my sister," Jonathan bit back, his green eyes reclaiming its fervor.

"You can bark at me all the idle threats you want, Jonathan, but it won't work. Clarissa _will_ be mine."

Jonathan made a low growling sound at the back of his throat, but it didn't even faze Sebastian, who smirked at him knowingly. "Has your father not told you yet?" He asked, letting out a cold, mirthless laugh.

Jonathan was confused, but he tried not to let it show. "Tell me what?"

Sebastian stole a glance at the remaining guards and Michael, all of whom stood in awkward silence as they watched their barbed exchange. With a pointed wave of his hand, he sent them away, leaving him and Jonathan alone.

"Honestly, foolish little Jonathan," Sebastian sneered. "Did you really think that my family would have helped your father all those years ago out of the kindness of our own hearts? That we would agree to risk our own troops against Stephen's forces without any payment in return from your father?"

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"It has been arranged a long time ago—since Clarissa and I were children—that we were to be wed when we grew older." Sebastian paused, as if gauging Jonathan's reaction. The latter looked stumped, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he struggled for words.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "She was the bargaining chip, the price your father paid in exchange for our help. Funny, isn't it? How your father was so willing to sell his own daughter, just for the sake of getting revenge on his adopted brother? He didn't even need to think, my father said. To him, Clarissa was, or rather, _is,_ just a small price… He had _nothing_ to lose, only something far greater to gain. His daughter…for a kingdom."

"I don't believe you! My father _wouldn't_ stoop to such low levels. If he had agreed to the terms that you and Clarissa were to be married, then why would he even bother to arrange for other suitors for her?"

Sebastian sighed at him as if he were a lost cause. "Those three suitors your sister met with before me…they were just part of a ruse, a design in your father's plan, to make Clarissa believe that she has a choice in whom she marries." The dark-haired king shook his head. "Your naïve little sister. Despite what she thinks she's entitled to, she has no say in the matter. She belongs to _me_. She always has, and she always will. She couldn't possibly find anyone better than me, anyway, so it's pointless, really."

"You _low-life_ , good-for-nothing…"

"Name-calling won't change anything, Jonathan. There's a much bigger picture to this _plan_ than you think. You see, it's not about a simple matter of marriage. Your father doesn't believe that you have the _finesse_ it would take to run a kingdom, so he's agreed to let _me_ take over Idris once he is no longer able to," Sebastian said smugly.

"Once Clarissa and I are married, Idris and Alicante will officially merge into one kingdom under my rule and protection. Your father wouldn't dare break our treaty; he's in a much too far compromising situation now, especially with how Idris has been faring."

Jonathan perked up at that. "What do you mean by that? Idris—"

"Honestly, Jonathan. And to think that you were supposed to be the next in line for the throne… You're completely clueless, aren't you?" He asked, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"You don't even know about all the crimes and fraudulence that your father has been committing all these years. All the taxes he's been collecting from the people? He's been using them to invest in his beloved games. Your people have been swiped of their own money right before their very eyes. They're starving, Jonathan, which is why Idris is in desperate need of a merger with Alicante—to strengthen its destabilizing economy and everything else that your father has been failing to maintain."

Jonathan was speechless by the end of Sebastian's revelation. He knew that his father was brutal and callous most of the time, but he had never expected him to be so obsessed with his gladiator games to resort to deceiving his own people. And the fact that Sebastian knew all that information when he didn't…it made him feel completely lost. How long had his father been conspiring with the royal family of Alicante?

"I see you're deep in your thoughts. Having a hard time processing all of this?" Sebastian remarked in a mocking tone. He shook his head and let out a dramatic sigh. "My, my, Jonathan. All this talk with you is incredibly exhausting. You really are as stupid as you look. But don't worry, Jonathan. You won't exactly _lose_ your sister when she marries me."

Sebastian walked up to Jonathan casually, then leaned in, his lips hovering against his ear. "I'll make sure to hire you as her personal servant. That way, you can wait on her hand and foot all you want. It's an extremely fair deal, don't you think?"

Jonathan stood frozen and dumbstruck. From the corner of his eye, he could see a messenger boy heading towards them. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform, a matching-colored beret seated on top of his dirty-blond hair.

"Lord Sebastian?" The boy asked timidly.

"Yes? What do you want?" Sebastian snapped in a bored tone.

"I have a message for you, Your Majesty. It is from your fellow councilmen in Alicante," he stammered before handing Sebastian a pristine roll of parchment from his leather satchel.

Sebastian snatched the scroll away from the boy's hands tersely, his black eyes skimming over the neat penmanship. When he was finally done, he looked up at Jonathan, his face betraying no exact emotion. "It seems that I have some pressing matters to attend to in Alicante," he said evenly.

"Do send Clarissa my love, won't you? Tell her I'm deeply regretful to be called back on such short notice, and that I promise to visit again soon…so that I can court her properly before our wedding," Sebastian finished with a smug smirk.

Before Jonathan could get a word in, Sebastian turned away and walked off, his head held high in victory, as though he owned the world and people worshipped the ground that he walked on.

Jonathan felt an immense wave of defeat wash over him, and he slumped down against the hard concrete ground, his mind numb and his body exhausted. No words could properly describe the emotions that swept over him. There was no particular one he could cling onto. It wasn't just confusion or hurt or anger or disappointment or even bitter sadness, but everything wrapped up into one.

His own father was nothing more than a sham, planning his and Clary's lives behind their backs the entire time; manipulating them like pawns in his own little game of chess. He didn't have an ounce of sincerity in his bone. All those brutal trainings and the punishments…all of it were for naught because he had never even intended to let Jonathan inherit the throne.

And what hurt him the most was knowing that his father would rather put his trust in someone else than his own son. That he'd rather trust…Sebastian. What was he supposed to do now? And worse, how was he supposed to tell his sister about all of this?

* * *

 ** _A/N: So, w_** ** _hen I first watched the movie Pompeii, it was the whipping scene that really inspired this entire story, believe it or not. I knew from the very beginning that if I decided to write this whole story, a) the whipping scene would be incorporated, and b) it would act as the trigger/turning point in the story... This is the point where everything starts to really unravel between the characters, mainly Clary and Jace._**

 ** _That aside, much to digest from this chapter. Isabelle. Alec. Sebastian. Valentine. Jonathan. (And of course, Clace). So please let me know your thoughts on this particular update._**

 ** _Thanks to Jling for always leaving me reviews. You rock, girl :)_**

 ** _I try not to feel so discouraged by the lack of reviews each chapter so far, but it's kinda hard not to. I put in a lot of effort into writing every chapter (each update is between 5K - 12K words, which really takes a lot of time to write), so any kind of feedback, however short, would be much appreciated. I can't force you guys into doing it of course, and it's unreasonable to expect reviews every single time, but a few seconds of your time is all I'm asking for. Nevertheless, thank you for reading and I apologize if I put anyone off by writing this A/N. That's not my intention. I hope you'll continue to follow the story to its end :)_**


	9. Chapter 8: Finding Solace In Pain

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8: FINDING SOLACE IN PAIN**

 **September 14, 508 _(part II)_**

Cold was all that Clary felt. Despite the warmth provided by her thick comforter, she was still trembling violently. Her cries had long since subsided into silent hiccups, yet she couldn't find it in her to break out of her catatonic state.

Images of the golden gladiator, bloodied and battered, flashed through her mind, each one bringing a fresh new wave of horror and pain to her heart. Why did he have to stand up for her? Why did he have to put himself at risk for her sake? He didn't owe her anything.

Apart from the small act of kindness she'd shown him in the market, when she'd unthinkingly bought him the bread from _Taki's_ , she hadn't exactly been nice to him. As a matter of fact, she had only ever managed to bait him, whether it was to deflect the situation on him or to call him out on his decision to keep his real name—something which she could see was a highly personal subject to him—a secret.

Even then, he had so willingly defended her honor, throwing his body, no, his _life_ on the line for her. She really didn't deserve his sacrifice.

He was a good man, better than anyone she had ever met, and he was probably dying now because of her. He was probably _already_ dead now because of her.

 _Oh God, if only these limbs would move!_ Clary thought in despair.

She hated being a prisoner of her own body, waiting hopelessly for the invisible runes of quietude and immobility to expire while her mind tormented her with a barrage of images that left her feeling drained and perturbed. She wanted nothing more than to get up and run to the gladiator barracks—to _him_. It was killing her not knowing anything.

"Clary?" Isabelle's voice just barely cut through her thoughts. It was strange hearing the handmaiden sound so hesitant and unsure of herself, but Clary realized that it hardly mattered when there were other, much bigger things at play.

"Clary, please. Talk to me," Isabelle said in a pleading tone. The mindless pacing that she had taken up for the past half-hour finally ceased, the hole that she had undoubtedly worn into Clary's carpet attesting to her worry.

Upon the princess's return, Isabelle had drawn her a warm bath and filled it with lavender and vanilla-scented oils in hopes that it would help to soothe her, but it was hopeless. Clary had shown her no reaction, only moving when she was being maneuvered around. The chamomile tea that Isabelle had prepared for her sat on her bedside table, untouched and undoubtedly now cold.

"Come on, Clary. Please? I don't know what to do here. If you just tell me what happened, or—or what you need…"

 _I need to get out of here,_ Clary thought, pinching her eyes shut when the gory images returned. It never seemed content to leave her alone… But perhaps the large reason for that was because of the heavy guilt bearing down on her conscience. The longer she remained there, the deeper it festered, wrapping around her heart like a clawed hand.

Clary's fingers twitched and the backs of her eyes burned with unshed tears. She tried to push herself up, to roll off the bed— _anything_ —but the more she struggled, the greater the weight pushing down against her chest grew. She couldn't move.

Isabelle wouldn't shut up either.

"Where the hell is everyone when you need them? Stupid Jonathan. Stupid Thomas. Stupid Magnus. _Where_ are they?"

 _I need to get out of here,_ Clary thought again, with greater desperation this time.

She didn't know what was worse—listening to Isabelle trying to coax her into speaking, or Isabelle going hysterical in general.

 _Nothing can possibly be as worse as the man you care about dying in the cells—probably alone,_ a voice barked, mocking her pathetic stillness.

Clary tried moving again, only to have that same infuriating invisible force restrain her. What was wrong with her?

She tried pushing herself up—again, and again, and again. Her chest prickled with her laborious efforts, yet her progress was non-existent. She barely even moved half an inch.

Clary let out a whimper of frustration, so quiet that no one except herself could hear it.

Isabelle was still a picture of hysterics as she continued to ramble and curse everything and everyone under the sun, oblivious to the fact that Clary was literally struggling against her own body. She closed her eyes, drawing in a ragged breath as her eyes stung with tears.

Only one voice occupied her head now—her own voice—and it was pleading with God to help her, to restore her ability to function.

 _I need to get out of here—please._

* * *

Jonathan was lost.

Not the literal kind where he couldn't find his way around the palace he had called home for past couple of years, but _lost_ , as in, he felt as if a giant piece of himself was missing—and he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to recover that piece no matter long he spent searching for it.

He walked—not quite aimlessly because he knew that his feet were carrying him towards a specific destination—but he might as well have been a passenger in his own body.

He didn't know where _he_ —his soul—was, as dramatic and ridiculous as it sounded. It was unclear to him at which point that part of him that had made him into who he was was severed, leaving him an empty shell of his former self. So yes. He was very, very lost.

 _If my father is a sham, then who am I?_ The question haunted him.

After the initial feeling of betrayal had set in, he remembered feeling hurt, used, and after, empty. His father well and truly didn't care for him. So what was Jonathan still doing there then? What purpose did he have as Valentine's son? He was no longer the heir to the throne—and according to Sebastian, he never had been. So why didn't his father just dispose of him? What good would he achieve from stringing him along like a mindless puppet?

Maybe Valentine was a sadist, after all.

Jonathan would rather he be cut loose and made to live in exile, to bear no connections to the Morgenstern name whatsoever. It would be the greatest form of mercy his father could ever show them. But of course, that was just wishful thinking.

Oh, why couldn't he have been born to a simple farmer or a blacksmith instead? Jonathan was certain that his life would have turned out so much easier if that were the case. He wouldn't have to worry about a traitorous, power-hungry father, or an equally callous king threatening him and his sister. He would have been poor _but_ happy; starved of luxury, but full of love.

Hours seemingly passed when Jonathan finally approached the door to Clary's room. He stared at the doorknob as if it were a foul creature that would suddenly come to life and sink its teeth into his hand, and hesitated.

He couldn't bring himself to go in there, not while his mind was still a wreck from everything he had learnt just mere hours ago from Sebastian. His sister was probably even worse off than he was, and she didn't even know the slightest drop of truth about their father or Sebastian. It only served to add another ten tonnes of burden onto his shoulders.

Jonathan knew that he would have to tell Clary all of it someday…but none of it today. She wasn't ready. And truthfully, neither was he.

He sighed and leaned his head against the polished wood of the door. His heart was beating so fast, and he realized belatedly, it was because he was scared. So much of his—and Clary's—lives had been constructed out of lies and revenge and deceit, that he wondered if there was anything left of them that was real. Was there anything that he was taught to believe that wasn't untainted?

 _I love Clary,_ he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. It was the only thing he was sure of, he realized—the only constant he knew that would never, ever change. It was something that he had always known, from the very first moment he laid eyes on his baby sister and she wrapped her small, chubby fist around his finger. The sibling love shared between them would weather through the tests of time.

 _I love my sister and will do anything to protect her from our father. I won't let him or Sebastian destroy her—I won't,_ he vowed.

Jonathan inhaled a long, cleansing breath before exhaling. When he reopened his eyes, they were less clouded, although not as bright as they once were. He was still scared of what awaited him on the other side of the door— _What if I'm too late? What if I can't fix her?_ —but he forced himself to toughen up, to be strong for his sister. He had to be.

Running his hand through his hair for the hundredth time, he finally mustered just enough courage to twist the knob and push the door open with a gentle creak. Isabelle was ranting to herself, in a rather colorful language he might add, but paused long enough to heave a sigh of relief when she noticed his presence.

Jonathan gave her a quick, half-hearted smile, then hurriedly padded into the room. There was none of his usual playful expression; his face was etched with all hard lines of concern and distress, and his hair was windswept enough to make him look as though he had just come through a hurricane.

Isabelle's sharp intake of breath was a good indication as any of how terribly disheveled he looked. But Jonathan ignored her completely and rushed to his sister's side.

"Hey, baby girl, how are you?" Jonathan asked in a mellow, honeyed voice as he stroked the untamed scarlet tendrils away from Clary's face.

He carefully reclined on the vacant space on his sister's bed, facing her, but she didn't respond to him at all. Her dulled emerald green eyes stared back at him blankly, as though she was seeing him but not seeing him at the same time. She appeared to be lost in her own way, too.

Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows, his mouth slightly agape, before looking over at Isabelle, who was standing by the fireplace. "Has she spoken at all?" He asked her anxiously.

Isabelle twirled an ebony strand of hair around her finger, a gesture of nervousness she rarely displayed. "No. I've tried to coax her into telling me what happened but she wouldn't even give me the slightest bit of response. She's been trembling non-stop since she came in. I've given her a warm bath, I've _tried_ giving her tea, but she still wouldn't cave. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do here, Jon."

Jonathan kept his voice calm. "Have you summoned Magnus?"

"Yes, he should have been here by now. I don't know what's taking him so long!" Isabelle clicked her tongue loudly, looking increasingly exasperated with each passing minute. "What's going on, Jon? What happened to her? I saw a bruise on her cheek—"

"Not right now, Isabelle," Jonathan admonished her sternly before returning his attention to his sister. His green eyes immediately softened when he realized just how small and breakable she looked. It reminded him of the time when…

Jonathan shook his head at the memory that had threatened to resurface. Like his sister, he owned many scars, one in particular that ran deeply enough for him to want to forget it. It was selfish, but he knew that Clary did the same thing too. She would try to erase every horrible memory from her mind by reading, and Jon… Jon did other things, like taking extremely long walks, making sure that he ended up as far away from the palace as possible. It was a mindless habit, meandering around the kingdom without any exact destination or purpose, but at least it was a better coping mechanism than turning to alcohol, drugs, or sex. It kept his conscience clear while allowing him to escape the heat of his father's scrutiny and punishments.

That was the _other_ thing. Neither of the Morgenstern siblings could fathom the reasons behind their father's punishments—whether it was being confined to their room with no food or drink for the entire day, or being exposed to multiple lashings from his belt, wooden rod or other whipping devices—although before his conversation with Sebastian, Jonathan had thought that it was his way of grooming them to live up to…whatever their sadistic father had probably thought was for their own _good_.

Looking back at everything now, he realized that he shouldn't have been surprised at all by the rest of Sebastian's dirty revelations about his father. If a man barely flinched at the idea of hurting his own children, why would he shudder away from the act of swindling his own people and letting them starve? He couldn't believe he had ever made excuses for that sorry excuse of a man who had never cared for anyone but himself.

When Clary let out a tiny whimper, Jonathan broke out of his thoughts long enough to gather her into his arms. He rubbed her back therapeutically and made soft hushing noises as she buried her face into her chest. Everything about the gesture was familiar in a way that made his heart ache. He hated seeing his sister in pain. While the physical assault she had taken from Sebastian was nowhere nearly as brutal as their father's, he believed that the emotional damage that he'd left her with was far more worse.

"It's all right, baby girl. He's gone. He's gone back to Alicante. He won't be bothering you anytime soon. Everything's all right," he cooed, knuckles brushing gently against Clary's slightly discolored cheek. "You're fine. You're safe now."

But even as he spoke those words of consolation, his conversation with Sebastian continued to play on an incessant repeat at the back of his mind.

Jonathan forcibly bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything he shouldn't. _She's not ready,_ he told himself. And as much as he hated keeping his sister in the dark, it was for her own good—to protect her. _She's not ready,_ he thought again.

It was hypocritical of him, he knew. His sister didn't deserve for him to treat her the way their father did, by keeping secrets stowed away from her—secrets that would directly affect her. But he could only imagine how much it would hurt her to know about what their father was planning—if she were to find out that Sebastian was, in fact, the man she was intended to marry. It could very well _kill_ her.

The door opened again, and this time, the tall frame belonging to Magnus Bane emerged. He was the royal family's physician, and had served the Morgensterns for as long as Jonathan could remember.

Infamously known for his erratic sense of fashion, Magnus was presently clad in a dark purple velvet suit emblazoned with sparkles, and his black hair was spiked up fashionably and coated in a generous layer of glitter.

As the young doctor strode into the room, his yellowish-green eyes narrowed, darting from Isabelle to Jonathan then Clary. He furrowed his eyebrows, the initial look of worry that crossed his face disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"A little room for me please, Jonathan," Magnus said as he approached the bed. "Unless you need me to examine you too," he added dryly.

As reluctant as Jonathan was to leave his sister's side, the young prince slowly extricated himself from her anyway, allowing Magnus to take up the vacated spot on her bed. Magnus gave him a silent nod of thanks before quickly proceeding to check Clary's vitals, the latter unconsciously flinching at his touch.

"It's just me, little Biscuit," Magnus reassured her in a soft tone he reserved only for her.

Clary's shoulders sagged a little but the tension was still evident in her tiny, wound-up body. She was a ticking bomb waiting to explode—

Jonathan silently prayed that she wouldn't though. He only wanted her to be okay.

"I've her diagnosis," Magnus finally spoke up in a careful, placating tone. Jonathan stepped closer to him, his arms folded across his chest.

"Clary's suffering from a severe case of trauma—or to put it in simpler terms, she's in shock," Magnus said.

" _Really?_ Even I could have told you that," Isabelle muttered to herself.

Both Jonathan and Magnus ignored her.

"What happened to her?" The eccentric doctor turned to Jonathan with an inquisitive look.

Jonathan bit on the inside of his cheek and hesitated, eyeing his sister warily. "She had a suitor come by today. King Sebastian of Alicante. He took her to the gladiator barracks at Dumont in an attempt of courting her. Then apparently, from what I heard, he lost his temper at Clary and assaulted her." Jonathan heard Isabelle let out a gasp at his admission but he remained composed and continued.

"After that, one of the gladiators attacked Sebastian to try to protect her, but he ended up getting whipped half to death in front of her," he explained, his green eyes trained on Clary the entire time to see if his story would elicit any response from her.

She barely even moved at all; the only signs of her listening to their conversation showed in the tremble of her lips and the glistening in her eyes.

The young doctor sighed. "Well, there's nothing much I can do in this case. Just give her time. Spend more time with her, but don't pressurize her into talking until she's ready to. For now, I'll give her some healing herbs to help soothe her and put her to sleep. It'll be best if you stay with her tonight…she might get nightmares from the incident so it wouldn't do her any good being by herself," Magnus instructed as he dug through his polished leather briefcase.

Jonathan nodded as he watched the doctor's movements intently. He sincerely hoped that Magnus's medicine would work and his sister would have a restful night's sleep. She deserved that much after everything she had gone through today. And _hopefully_ , she would feel better enough by tomorrow. He would talk to her then—of course, he wouldn't tell her everything, but it was definitely important to take those small, baby steps.

As Magnus continued to work, the occasional sound of glass bottles clinking against one another permeating the silence, Jonathan was startled when a sudden, quiet gasp broke past his sister's lips, and the first word came tumbling out of her mouth in a breathless plea.

* * *

" _Please…_ " Clary rasped, her voice sounding like she hadn't spoken in years. From the scratchiness of her throat, the idea certainly didn't seem far-fetched.

Having listened to Jonathan recount everything that had happened earlier, albeit it being a less detailed and extremely condensed version of things, Clary felt her anguish and guilt grow. Anguish in itself was a good motivation, she felt, but combined with the _guilt_ … Those two emotions were enough to pull her out of her paralysis.

"What is it, Biscuit?" Magnus was assessing her in a way that made her feel like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and broken its wing: fragile.

And for a passing moment, Clary felt annoyed, affronted even. She knew that was what everyone in the room thought of her; to them, she was a delicate little thing that they needed to tiptoe around, to _protect_ —and while her response to the disastrous turn of events that had taken place hours prior proved the theory to be true to a certain extent, she felt terribly underestimated.

Yes, she cried a lot and was prone to experiencing intense feelings of empathy for others, but she was _not_ weak. While she might not have the most impressive track record when it came to standing up for herself, she liked to believe that she was, for the most part, independent and strong in her own prerogative. After all, she was still alive and breathing despite years of growing up under her father's dictatorial and misogynistic ways, wasn't she?

But now wasn't the time to flare her nostrils just because no one in the room saw that about her, Clary decided. This wasn't about her… It was about _him._

"Magnus, please…I need your help. Please."

Despite her body protesting that it needed to rest, Clary pushed herself up onto her elbows, trying to sit up as far as she could. To her annoyance, Jonathan rushed forward and tried to coax her into lying down. She shrugged off his insistence with a surprising death glare, which instantly melted into desperation the moment she turned to Magnus.

"Magnus?" She hated how whiny she sounded, but she supposed there was no other way for her to sound when deep down, she was that—a despairing soul. What if they were too late?

She barely knew Shadowhunter, but already, she couldn't imagine a life without him in it. She didn't care if they never spoke to each other again after tonight. He _needed_ to live.

"Please, Magnus. Please say that you'll help me."

"Shh, Clary, I am trying the best that I can. Please just… Lie down. You need to rest. The strain isn't good for you," Magnus gently said as he prepared the herbal remedy for her.

The princess shook her head in frustration. Why couldn't he understand what she wanted?

"Here, I'm going to give you this to sedate you. Hopefully, you'll feel better and well-rested when you wake up tomorrow." Magnus tilted a tiny glass vial filled with the herbal concoction towards her lips, but she pushed it away from her with surprising force.

"No."

"Clary—"

"No! _Please_ ," she said in a softer tone. "Help _him_. I can't—Please, just help him. _Please,_ " she repeated with watery but focused green eyes.

Magnus seemed to deflate a little as he gave a resigned nod in her direction. "All right, Clary, I'll help him. I'll go. But only if you promise to listen to me and take this." He pushed the vial towards her, but again, she refused it.

"No, Magnus," she said, her voice sounding impossibly stubborn and much firmer this time. "I want to go with you. I need to see him. I need to make sure he's— _he's ok-ay_ —" Her voice cracked at the end.

Magnus stared at her as if he were assessing her. She stared back at him, her gaze unwavering.

 _Please listen to me,_ her eyes begged him. _Please help me._

"Clary—" Jonathan started to protest.

Clary had never wanted to scream at her brother to keep quiet more than she wanted to now. Who did he think he was to _tell_ her what was best for her? He didn't know _anything_ —not how she was feeling, and certain not how long she had been trying to muster herself into becoming something remotely useful.

But luckily for her, Magnus was on her side.

"All right, Clary. We'll go," he declared, much to her brother's aversion.

Jonathan looked as if he were about to start protesting again but Magnus was quick to cut him off. "Isabelle, go help her get dressed. I'll be waiting outside." His tone left no opportunity for argument, and with that, he stood up and trudged out of the room, her brother tailing him closely from behind.

Clary knew that Jonathan was furious, but she realized that in the grand scheme of things, she didn't care about how her brother was feeling. He would learn to deal with his anger, just as she would learn to deal with her own self-reproach. But if Shadowhunter died in the hours of her idleness, she would never forgive herself. She would never be able to live with a guilt-free conscience knowing that it was because of _her_ that his blood had spilled.

As she flexed her stiff muscles, Clary found her strength slowly return, and with Isabelle's help, she found her toes touching the hardwood floor again.

* * *

As soon as the door fell shut, Jonathan whirled on Magnus, looking far more agitated than anyone was used to seeing him. Jonathan didn't wear a frown or a scowl often; the probability of either ranked lower than him showing up on Magnus's doorstep with his face caked in a jester's make-up.

But when he _did_ scowl, he had no doubt that he looked intimidating, second only to his father.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Magnus? You're a doctor! Can't you see that she's in no condition to be moving around?" Magnus tried to answer but Jonathan cut him off this time, his tone bitter and defensive. "No! You just had to entertain her stupid, little whims! I'm not protesting against you going to help that man—In fact, I'd be grateful for it. But Clary doesn't need to go! What if she goes into another shock? What if she gets worse?" He flailed his arms wildly, his face red with vexation.

Magnus looked at him calmly. "Listen, Jon. I know you're worried about Clary—I understand that. But surely even you could see how much it was killing her not knowing if he's okay? If she were prattling about going off to see that…that _ogre_ who dared to lay his hands on her, then I would have sedated Clary already. But she wants to see the man who _saved_ her—" He gave Jonathan a pointed look. "Even _you_ should understand what a big deal that is. She probably already blames herself for what happened to him. Would you rather have her locked up in here, driven mad with uncertainties and what-ifs, when there's a chance for her to find closure tonight?"

"And if he's dead?" Jonathan countered, not meaning to sound so cold. "How do you think she'll take it if she sees that he's no more than a rotting corpse?"

Magnus pinched the space in between his eyebrows and sighed. "Then we'll help her deal with it. That's not the point, Jon," he said wearily. "I know I said that we shouldn't push her to confront the situation. But if she's willing and ready…" He trailed off.

"Your sister is stronger than she looks," Magnus said. "Give her some credit, Jonathan. You owe her that at the very least—as her brother."

"This is so _stupid_ ," Jonathan chafed, but his face was resigned. If his sister was going, then he was too. He was far from happy with Magnus's decision, but who was he to argue with the doctor? At least he knew that Magnus was invested in his sister's well-being. He wouldn't let her do something that could potentially endanger her. "But if things start to go awry, you better sedate her, Magnus."

"Oh dear me, do talk to me like it's only my first day as a doctor, won't you?" Magnus rolled his eyes and turned away from Jonathan, muttering incomprehensible, but undoubtedly, more sarcastic words underneath his breath.

The two stood in awkward silence until the door to Clary's room finally opened a crack, and she slipped out into the hallway. She was dressed in her riding gear: a simple tunic held together by a belt, a pair of black leather trousers and matching leather boots; and her hair was brushed into a simple ponytail. She looked slightly better as well. Her face was no longer stained with tear tracks and her green eyes shone with a renewed vigor.

"Let's go," Clary said steadily, and that was all it took for Jonathan to relent with his sister's wishes.

* * *

Jace laid sprawled out on his front, his face pressed against the filthy, grimy floor of his cell. He had been in the same position for the last few hours, ever since those guards had dumped him in there. Michael had come in to check on him several times, but he was about as useful as a blunt sword that through his heavy cloud of agony, Jace had grunted at him to leave him be.

Unfortunately, or by some strange, possibly orchestrated coincidence, the infirmary had suddenly run out of medical supplies to treat wounds caused by whiplashing, so Jace remained untreated, as still as a carcass doused in a pool of his own crusted blood, save for the shivers that racked his abused body.

No words could describe the amount of pain that he was feeling. He had never been whipped before, much less whipped to the point where he couldn't even move an inch of his muscles…where it physically hurt to even breathe. Rivulets of sweat saturated his skin like a blanket, yet he felt cold, unbelievably cold. His back was raw and bloody, filling the dank, humid room with the putrid stench of iron and rotting flesh that even Jace had to forcibly swallow back the bile from rising in his throat.

Several times he had blacked out, only to awake moments later to find that he was in no less pain than he was the first time. And each time his vision tunneled, he had been certain that this was it. This was the end for him. He was going to die.

The thought used to welcome him, that his suffering on earth would end, and another, more permanent life would greet him on the other side. He would be able to meet his parents again, and this time, he wouldn't ever need to worry about losing them a second time. They would be a family again, a whole that can never be broken by a manic human's touch. He would be _relieved_.

But every time he was close to letting go, another face would appear, scorching the backs of his eyelids, telling him that he was nowhere nearly done…that he still had a long life ahead of him to be fulfilled. That face promised him that. He only needed to hold on and fight through the pain. And even if the real-her didn't feel the same way he did about her, he would keep fighting, if only to see her face one more time.

Black loomed in his vision, but this time, he didn't allow it to suck him in. He readily accepted the pain, knowing it to be a sign that he was alive.

Still, he couldn't help the soft whimpers from escaping him, the silent prayers he uttered in his mind seeking God's help to alleviate his pain. _Not right now,_ he pleaded. _I'm not done yet. Please, let me see her again._

It was then that he heard them: a pair of light footsteps pervading the air like a divine answer to his prayers. He concentrated on them, on how they seemed to get closer and closer to him.

As the entrance to his cell swung open, Jace faintly registered the sound of a feminine gasp. The footsteps came again, this time accompanied by a strong sense of urgency.

Jace felt her presence even before she dropped to her knees next to his mangled form, no doubt gaping at the grotesqueness of his back.

" _Oh my God,_ " Clary—or someone who, he imagined, must sound an awful lot like Clary—choked.

He felt her hand hesitate, just centimeters away from his back. Even if he couldn't see it himself, he knew that it was marred with multiple streaks of crimson, the reddish-brown scars appearing garish and angry against his skin. His lacerations had stopped bleeding, but now left his back caked with dried, congealed blood.

"Hey," she cooed at him, gently lifting his head off the floor and onto her lap. She stroked his golden hair, now matted down with grime and sweat, eliciting a soft moan from him.

Jace looked up at her through exhausted eyes, half-convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him. _I'm delirious,_ he thought as he looked away from 'Clary' with a barely-there shake of his head.

Was it possible that his yearning for her had brought up this extremely vivid hallucination? Even through his pain, he knew that the possibility of Clary actually being there in the cell with him was impossible. After all, why should she care about him, even if he almost did die because of her?

 _She_ was a _princess_. _He_ was a _gladiator_. His life couldn't possibly mean anything to her.

"You're going to be okay," Clary murmured, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Slowly, he braved himself to open his eyes, and angled his head just so he could catch another glimpse of the princess's face. She was staring down at him, her rosy lips pulled up into a sad smile. Her emerald green eyes were shining with unshed tears, and her face had a visible pallor to it. Jace's breath caught. _She's real,_ he realized belatedly.

He had dreamt of Clary plenty of times before, but this wasn't one of those times. She looked and sounded too real to be a figment of his imagination. There was no glittery sheen to her skin to indicate otherwise; neither did she sound echoey and far-away as she would have in his dreams. She was as real as the day they first met in the market. But more importantly than that, she was _here_ with him.

"Please tell me that I'm not dreaming. Please, tell me that you're really here," he muttered, his voice tight with pain. He had been certain for a while that he _wasn't_ dreaming but even then, he still needed to hear her say it. He didn't know why her assurance mattered that much to him—

It just did.

To his relief, Clary obliged his request. "You're not dreaming. I'm here," she said softly.

As weak as he felt, Jace managed a small smile. Her soft hands ran through his hair, massaging it lightly. Her tiny ministrations proved to be more soothing than he anticipated that he couldn't restrain himself from letting out a pleased noise.

" _Clary,_ " Jace moaned softly. It occurred to him, a little too late, that it was the first time he was calling her by her name. Not Milady, not Your Highness, not Princess, but _Clary._

Just Clary.

The girl in question seemed to realize it too, but instead of chastising him like he thought she would, she only blushed. Jace tried not to be presumptuous, but the small act of hers filled him with an odd sense of hope, and at the same time, vulnerability and need.

"Clary, please don't go. I don't want you to go," Jace whimpered, nuzzling his face into her lap.

There were moments in his life that he felt close to his breaking point, and this was one of those rare times. As much as he liked to don the mask of indestructibility, he was still human—a man who was hurting and on the brink of death. If he would die tonight in Clary's arms, he wanted to be his honest self, to be _Jace_. Not Shadowhunter.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here. I'm going to look after you," she said in a strong but gentle voice Jace found to be comforting. Though he wasn't the naïve or gullible type, he found himself hanging onto her every word— _trusting_ her. "I promise. Everything's going to be fine."

The sound of a man clearing his throat broke Jace's spell of calmness, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on Clary, willing for her to stay, to not let him go.

 _You promised,_ he silently pleaded with her. _Don't leave me._

"Where's Jonathan?" Jace heard Clary asking the other man. He could imagine her furrowing her eyebrows at the person, someone whom she was probably familiar with, and came to a conclusion that he was in no way a plausible threat—at least not one that could forcibly remove her from him.

He eased his grip on Clary a little, but refused to look up from her lap, mostly because it was too enervating of a task for his injured self to accomplish.

"Oh, don't worry about him," the man answered. "He's busy giving the guards a piece of his mind about what happened earlier today. And, he's making sure that there'll be no more repeats of this incident in the future."

"Oh, thank God for him," Clary sighed.

There was a brief sound of rustling and tinkling as the man, Jace presumed, rifled through his things. He mustered a peek and saw a couple of bandages, a canister of salve, and a bottle of red wine laid out on the floor next to him.

"What's the wine for?" Clary asked, her right hand unconsciously stroking Jace's hair while the other was massaging the nape of his neck.

"It's used as a disinfectant for most wounds," the man replied, leading Jace to believe that he was a doctor. "Clary, I'm going to pour the wine onto his back, and it's going to sting a lot. You might need to hold him down for me. Can you do that?"

Jace stiffened as he listened to the man's words. He'd had his suspicions about what was coming, but the reality of it hadn't sunk in until just _now_. He was already in a lot of pain, and he didn't know if he would be able to take any more—even if Clary's presence did help to make it a little more bearable.

"We need to be quick, Clary," the man said more urgently when she didn't respond. "His injuries have been exposed long enough as it is. Infections can be fatal. I won't lie—It'll hurt him, but it's necessary if we want to improve his chances of healing."

"Okay," Clary breathed. She leaned down towards him, until he could feel her warm breath blowing softly against the shell of his ear.

"Hey," she whispered, urging him to look at her. She gave him a weak smile. "We're going to pour the wine onto your back to disinfect your wounds, and it's going to hurt a lot," she parroted the doctor's words to him gently. "But you'll feel better after… I promise."

Knowing there was no other way, Jace gave her an almost imperceptible nod and squeezed his eyes shut to brace himself for the pain. He felt Clary's hands leave his hair as they reached for his large, callused ones. They molded themselves around his, the gesture reassuring him more than he thought possible.

"You can squeeze my hands if you want to." Her breath caressed his neck like a gentle morning breeze, and he did so gently in response.

The seconds ticked by, feeling like hours had passed as Jace waited with bated breath. He instinctively tensed as he heard the sound of the cork being removed from the bottle, and the quiet but distinct sound of the man's voice counting down.

"Three…"

Jace closed his eyes.

"Two…"

He squeezed Clary's hands tighter.

" _One._ "

His breath stuttered.

As soon as the alcohol made contact with his skin, an even sharper, burning sensation shot through his body, causing him to jerk and spasm wildly from pain. Even then, he suppressed his instinctive reaction to scream, biting down hard on his bottom lip until he drew blood into his mouth. A muffled cry made its way out of his throat and he buried his face even deeper into Clary's lap.

He squeezed her hands tightly as his body continued to rock violently, unable to discern the possibility that he was hurting her in the process. All he could fathom was his own surreal agony. It was almost as if he had been catapulted through an open flame and straight into the cavernous pits of hell. Over and over again, he felt as if his skin was being scorched and simultaneously ripped away from his flesh.

 _Stop! Stop! Stop!_ He yelled in his head. _Make it stop!_

"Please," Jace whimpered in a barely audible voice. "Make it stop…"

Sweat pouring off of him like a river, and his jaw clenched so hard that he was almost certain that it was going to break, Jace had himself believing that he wouldn't be able to pull through when he suddenly heard it:

The sound of a melodious, ethereal-like voice serenading him.

It was a lullaby he remembered his mother used to sing to him, and he vaguely wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. But as he paid closer attention to the woman's voice, he realized it wasn't his mother at all.

It was _Clary_.

The dulcet, euphonious sound of her voice was truly magical, and slowly, he felt the pain begin to ebb away. The taut, rigid muscles in his back relaxed as his grimace loosened, and he let out a soft, contented sigh. He turned his head towards Clary's voice, and her mouth brushed against his nose gently, the texture of her lips feeling like the soft petals of a rose.

Her singing soon halted and Jace heard her gasp softly. Unexpectedly, her fingertips brushed his cheek in an intimate-like gesture, and his golden eyes flew open in surprise.

"Hey," Clary greeted him for the third time that night. Her cheeks looked flushed, but overall, she looked relieved, as if a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders.

"Hi," Jace returned with a smile of his own, his honey eyes glinting with a warm emotion he couldn't name himself. The feelings he felt for her were so raw—it wasn't like anything he had never experienced with anyone else before. And for those few seconds, it was almost as if everything bad had vanished from the room, and all he could see, feel, touch, and smell was Clary. She consumed him, every single part of him.

The man whom Jace had yet to identify cleared his throat again, causing the two of them to look away from each other. Feeling strangely rejuvenated after the initial pain had lessened, Jace allowed his eyes to settle on the sparkly, Asian-looking man. What he saw forced him to do a double-take—

The man was literally _sparkling_ , almost as if he were a mythical creature.

"Fairy godmother?" Jace asked, his voice uncharacteristically small like a child's.

The man rolled his eyes as Clary let out a giggle. "That's Magnus Bane the Magnificent to you, gladiator. And I object! If I were a magical being, I'd be a warlock, not some useless fairy."

Jace opened his mouth to make a remark, but ended up wincing instead when he felt a sharp prick in his left arm. "Ouch! What was that for?" He yelled hoarsely at the same time Clary cried out, "Be careful with him!"

They both glared at the man—Magnus—who was now holding a used needle in his hand. _Where_ it came from and _when_ he took it out, Jace would never know.

"An extra precaution, just in case of any internal infection," Magnus replied. He smirked before shooting Clary with a teasing glance. "Ease up, Clarissa. Your hero here seems to be doing just fine."

Clary grumbled something unintelligible underneath her breath, then paused as if she were thinking deeply. Finally, she said, "I'll take it from here, Magnus."

Magnus relented with a nod. "I'll just leave you with these bandages. Remember, you need to clean his wounds first, then apply the salve before you wrap him up." He gave the princess a wink then he exited the cell, leaving Jace and Clary by themselves.

Jace might have longed for this moment, but now that he and Clary were alone, he felt the awkward tension set in. What would she say? What should _he_ say? Should he wait for her speak first or—

"How are you feeling?" Clary asked, saving him from having to answer his own inane questions. She sounded as nervous as he felt, that Jace felt himself smile. At least he wasn't the only one affected by her presence; it went both ways in their case.

"Like I've been rolling on a bed of burning coals," he admitted weakly.

Clary snorted inelegantly and gave him a tiny smile. "Have you even tried rolling on a bed of burning coals before?" She asked in a more feisty tone.

"Why, of course not, Milady. That would be terribly stupid of me now, wouldn't it?" He retorted half-heartedly.

"Clary," she corrected him.

"What?" Jace asked, confused. Even though he felt infinitely better, the events that had taken place earlier had left him reeling with exhaustion. He didn't know how long he could keep up with his own wit, much less with his conversation with the princess.

"I want you to call me 'Clary'," she whispered bashfully, eliciting a shocked but genuinely happy smile from him in return. As if she couldn't bear holding his gaze, she averted her eyes, her focus darting from the bandages to the salve. She let out a disgruntled sigh.

Jace furrowed his eyebrows. "What's wrong, Clary?"

"We don't have a wet cloth or any water to clean the blood off of you," she explained, pinching the space between her eyebrows with a groan.

"It's fine," Jace began to say when Clary interrupted him. She seemed awfully stressed all of a sudden and he wondered why.

"No, it isn't. Magnus said—Oh, never mind! Just—Wait here," she said, gently moving Jace's head off of her lap. He turned his face so that his left cheek was pressed against the floor and squinted at her tiredly.

"I can't run away even if I tried…and I mean that in quite a literal sense," he joked, the amusement detectable in his voice.

Clary rolled her eyes and patted his head mockingly. "At least we both know that your sense of humor is still intact," she said as she left the cell.

Jace grinned to himself, rather goofily he might add, until the strong ache in his muscles returned full force. Grimacing, he murmured a silent prayer that he would still be able to walk, and hopefully, fight just as well after this. He couldn't imagine what he would do with his life if lost the ability to do either. He would be useless, a man who would have been better off left dead.

"What's got you all frowning?" Clary asked as she reentered the cell with two wooden bowls in her hand. She flopped down beside Jace and placed the bowls on the floor. "Is it the pain? Do you feel worse? Should I call Magnus?"

Jace chuckled. "Calm down, Clary. I'm feeling a little achy but I'll live—at least, after the stunt with Magnus and the needle, I think so…"

"Don't even joke about dying," Clary interjected sternly.

The seriousness of her remark caused something to stir inside of Jace, and he couldn't help but ask, "Why not?" His smile faded into something more rueful. "We mere mortals are bound to die someday. It's a fact of life, Clary."

"Well, I don't want to think of you dying!" She yelled at him.

Jace stared back at her, shocked by her outburst.

"You just…you can't die," she whispered brokenly.

"I will someday," he said softly. "Maybe not now, but in the arena, or—"

"Stop," Clary said, quietly but decisively. She wasn't even looking at him but Jace wished that she was. He wished that he knew what she was thinking; what she was _feeling_. "We're not talking about this anymore."

"I—"

Clary gave him a warning look that caused Jace to deflate almost instantly. There was so much emotion behind that single look—not just plain anger that said 'Stop it or I'll slap you silly' but anger that was laced with an equal amount of anguish.

Jace swallowed. His heart ached at that very look. He hated seeing her distressed, much less knowing that he was the cause of it. "Okay."

Clary looked away from him with a curt nod. "Do you think you can sit up?" She said, obviously anxious to change the subject.

"I haven't moved at all since this afternoon," Jace mumbled. "But I might as well try. My muscles are killing me."

As Clary repositioned herself to kneel in front of him, Jace pushed himself up into a sitting position—or at least, he _tried_ to. He wasn't even halfway up when he about nearly planted face-first into the floor.

Fortunately, Clary reached forward just in time and looped her arms underneath his armpits, steadying him. It took some time, but upon accomplishing their arduous task, Jace slumped forward again weakly, his head resting on Clary's shoulder.

She adjusted herself a little, before reaching for the wet towel that she'd placed in one of the wooden bowls. Wringing out the excess warm water from the towel, she then began to dab away at his wounds, meticulously ridding his skin of the dried blood.

Unable to help himself, Jace moaned, in slight pain but mostly in pleasure, from the soft, tentative touches on his back. Granted, Clary was touching him with a towel but it was still soothing enough to make him purr like a little kitten. He didn't know how long they were glued to each other in that position, but truth be told, he didn't care. He didn't _want_ to care. It had been far too long since anyone had actually taken care of him, and he'd missed it.

Clary chuckled. "I hope you're not falling asleep on me," she tried joking, but the shakiness in her voice indicated otherwise. She was flustered.

"You do make a pretty nice pillow," Jace said, trying to lighten the mood. Clary pinched him in the shoulder. "Ow!"

"There! You're as good as new," she announced, completely ignoring his cry of pain. She pulled away from him and beamed at him satisfactorily.

Jace couldn't help but smile back at her. "Thank you, Clary," he said softly, his aureate eyes venerating her as if she were a mystical being. For all he knew, she was probably one. After all, which _ordinary_ girl would willingly volunteer to clean up after another's wounds, especially if it involved a great deal of blood? She had not flinched away from him once or showed disgust; neither did she complain. How could he not feel awe for her?

"You're welcome," Clary replied as if none of it fazed her. She broke his intense gaze and reached for the salve, applying it generously onto his skin.

Jace wanted to say more but he was silenced by her touch. Everything about her left him dumbfounded with admiration—her gentleness, her compassion, her bravery, her selflessness. Was she even real?

After he had been bandaged up, Clary reached over for the other wooden bowl. By then, Jace was feeling better enough to sit up without needing to lean onto her for support.

She stirred the contents of the bowl around with a spoon and frowned. "It's tomato soup," she told him. "I'm really sorry…I meant to feed it to you before but I thought that your wounds needed my attention more, and I couldn't possibly nurse them and feed you at the same time, and now your soup's all cold," she rambled. Her nose was scrunched up with self-annoyance as she began to unconsciously stir the soup faster.

"Hey, it's okay, Clary," Jace hushed her.

He caught her wrist lightly, ceasing her rushed movements. She glanced at him with a sheepish pout and he nodded at her reassuringly, opening his mouth for her to feed him. Normally, Jace would have protested against being coddled— _he was a grown man, for goodness' sake!—_ but he didn't have the heart to say no to Clary. So instead, he bit back his self-pride and allowed her to feed him. He didn't even realize how famished he was until the entire bowl had run dry.

"I forgot to get you some water," she groaned, this time slapping her forehead against her palm. "God, I'm hopeless."

"It's all right, Clary. Really," he assured her. He watched as his hand reached for hers and entwined their fingers together, smiling forlornly at her. "Thank you…for everything that you've done for me—for putting up with me. I know how disgusting I must look with all the blood and the scars, and you really didn't have to do what you did."

Clary opened her mouth to argue with him but he held his hand up to stop her. "And I'm really sorry about all the mean things I've said to you before. _I_ was wrong. You're nothing at all like your father. You have a kind and beautiful heart, and I was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that—to see you for who you truly are. And I'm glad—just… _Thank you_ ," he finished sincerely.

Clary shook her head at him. "You know you're wrong. I owe you everything. You stood up for me, you fought for me, and you could have _died_ —" Her voice cracked, and Jace noticed how her eyes began to well up with tears. "You could have died because of me, and I'm so sorry. I was stupid and selfish, and I'm so sorry for prying—"

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Clary. You have nothing to be sorry for," he cooed as he pulled her into his arms. Her body began to shake then and he felt the tell-tale signs of tears wetting his chest. He didn't mind though—not with Clary. He would offer her just about anything to comfort her. After tonight, he _owed_ her.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." Jace leaned his cheek against her hair affectionately and closed his eyes. She fitted perfectly into his embrace, almost as her body had been molded specifically for his. Unable to stop himself, he freed her fiery tresses from its ponytail and ran his fingers through them gently. They were soft, softer than he had imagined them to be, that he wanted to bury his fingers into them forever.

Too soon, Clary pulled away, sniffling as she rubbed the tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry I cry too much," she admitted meekly, causing Jace to laugh heartily despite himself. His laughter died out rather quickly though when a sharp throb pierced through his spine.

"Ouch," he choked, eliciting a peal of giggles from Clary.

"See? That's what you get for making fun of me!" She said, throwing her head back in complete mirth.

Jace didn't know why, but seeing Clary so open and carefree in front of him, he felt his self-control slip. And with it, so did the one word that he'd tried so hard to suppress: his name.

"Jace," he blurted.

Clary's giggles ceased as she looked him over confoundedly. "What?"

 _No turning back now, Herondale,_ Jace thought nervously.

He inhaled a deep breath and as he blew it out, he said in a harried tone, "Jace. My name is Jace." She stared at him wide-eyed. "I thought you'd like to know that." He looked away from her, the gravity of the situation finally weighing down on him.

 _Did I really just tell Clary my name?_ He wondered, bewildered by his own actions. _Oh no, what if her father told her that Stephen Herondale had a son named Jace and she figures out that I'm_ that Jace _? She's going to hate me, she's going to kill me!_

"Jace," Clary said, almost as if she were testing his name out on her tongue. He looked at her, alarmed, but to his surprise, she simply said: "I like it. _Jace._ It really suits you." She gave him a sincere smile, and he let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, blushing a little.

 _Wait a second…Jace Herondale does not blush!_ He thought, panicked despite his own fatigued mind.

"You should sleep," she said softly, ending his short-lived mental breakdown.

"Can you stay? Just until I fall asleep?" He asked before he could stop himself. On the inside, Jace chastised himself for sounding for needy. He wasn't supposed to get closer to Clary, even if he did owe her his life. Telling her his name was already a huge slip-up—a mistake!

So why didn't he feel regretful over his actions? Why did he feel liberated now that she knew his name?

"Of course," Clary murmured sweetly. She paused for a moment, her pupils unfocusing as she appeared to be contemplating a life-changing decision.

"Come here," she said in the end, patting the space on her lap with a faint blush on her cheeks.

There was a brief moment of hesitation on Jace's part, but his weakness for her quickly won out. He hated to admit it, but there was no real battle in the first place. He wanted her around him, _with_ him, whether or not he knew it was wrong.

 _Just for tonight,_ Jace told himself as he laid his head down on her lap, reclining on his side to avoid putting pressure on his still tender back.

"Good night, Clary," he said with a small smile. He closed his eyes as she stroked his hair, lulling him to sleep.

"Good night, Jace" was the last sweet thing he heard before he was consumed by peaceful oblivion. And for the first time in eight years, no nightmares plagued him in his sleep.

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 ** _A/N: If this chapter is any indication... CLACE IS RISING!_**

 ** _Old readers, you'd probably know what's coming in the next chapter...though I've since made some changes when revising the story. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the extended scene in the beginning of this chapter where I gave a little more insight into Jon's character._**

 ** _To my new readers, I used to do this thing with my old readers where I would PM them a sneak peek of next chapter every time they reviewed. I'd be more than happy to do the same if you guys reviewed :)_**

 ** _I'd like to thank every single person who has reviewed and followed this story so far (and yes, that includes guest reviewers, too). I appreciate everyone of you for taking the time to share your thoughts on the story's progress. And shoutout to Aubrey Kelly for going back to review not just last chapter, but the other one-shots I've posted x_**

 ** _Until next time~ peace xoxo_**


	10. Chapter 9: A Leap of Faith

_**A/N: Reposting for the sake of those who might have missed the update a few days ago. I'm really not sure at this point. The lack of response (save for the few loyal reviewers so far) is discouraging. I don't know if it's to be construed as a general lack of interest in the story. Either way, I've been trying my best here but it doesn't seem to be worth the amount of effort I've put in. Nevertheless, I will strive to uphold my promise of completing the story. Cheers.**_

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 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

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 **CHAPTER 9: A LEAP OF FAITH**

 ** _September 15, 508_**

 _Jace was lying down on his stomach, one cheek pressed against his folded arms, as he sighed loudly. The night was still young, but since there was absolutely nothing that he was allowed to do in his current state, he was practically drowning in a sea of pure boredom. The rest of the gladiators had already left over an hour ago with their respective guards to carry out their assigned slave duties, which left Jace in the cells…alone…for at least the next three hours or so._

 _He cursed Sebastian for the thousandth time that day. If it weren't for the fiend, he could be moving around and do normal activities just like the rest of them, but his agonized back—and his insistent, overbearing master—kept him immobile and useless._

 _Speaking of Michael, Jace wished that he could punch the older man in the face from the excessive amount of nagging and coddling the latter had been giving him all day. As if it weren't humiliating enough that he had been reduced to a temporary invalid… He absolutely loathed being treated like a toddler._

 _The sound of the entrance to his cell being opened broke him out of his silent fuming and Jace looked up with narrowed eyes._

 _"Go away, Michael. I've had enough of your babying to last me a lifetime," he growled in an acidic tone._

 _"Now, now, Shadowhunter. Is that any way to greet your guests?" An amused voice—obviously not Michael's—replied._

 _Jace jerked his head up further, his eyes widening when he spotted the doctor who had helped him yesterday—Magnus—standing in his cell, and another smaller, cloaked figure he now recognized all too well._

Clary.

 _Except, it wasn't quite her. Her red locks were hidden from display, replaced by a brown-colored wig. She wasn't wearing her usual fancy dresses but a servant boy's clothes, and…was that a fake mustache above her upper lip?_

 _"What are you two doing here?"_

 _Clary giggled, a sound that made Jace's stomach flutter in an extremely odd but pleasant way. "Nope, still not satisfied. Why don't you try again? Nicer this time," she said._

 _"I…I thought…what—"_

 _"It seems that a certain feline has caught his tongue, dearest Clarissa," Magnus joked as he sauntered towards Jace._

 _Clary followed suit with a playful bounce in her step, and though it was dimly lit in his cell, Jace could see clearly the gleam of happiness in her emerald green eyes._

 _His heart rate sped up and he felt his palms grow uncharacteristically sweaty. "Clary?" He found himself stuttering._

 _"It's 'Clark', actually," she said, self-consciously brushing her mustache with her fingers. She looked oddly pensive. "Thomas Clark."_

 _"And Magnus Bane!" The doctor cut in, looking offended. "Don't you forget—If it weren't for my magnificent doctoring skills, you probably wouldn't have lasted the night."_

 _"Magnus!" Clary chided. "You're being rude!"_

 _"Well, so is he!" Magnus pointed to Jace. "Which person in his right mind ignores a fine, rare specimen such as this?" He gestured to himself flamboyantly._

 _Clary rolled her eyes as she plopped down onto the floor in front of Jace. "One who doesn't have interest in other men," she muttered before smiling at Jace._

 _"Hi," she said softly._

 _"Hi," he whispered, blinking his eyes as if he couldn't believe that she was here—for the second time in two nights. "What's with the disguise?"_

 _Clary looked down at her outfit, fingered her mustache again, then shrugged. "A precaution," she said. "I can't risk being seen here as the princess two nights in a row. It'll only draw attention and raise questions among the guards. Besides, I can't have my father finding out."_

 _Jace nodded. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…what are you doing here?"_

 _Clary tilted her head to the side. "Aren't you glad to see me?"_

 _"Of course I am," he spluttered. "But—"_

 _"Always with a 'but'." She smiled at him playfully while Magnus laid down a gaudy-looking mat on the floor, his face pulled into a disgusted grimace. She shook her head at the eccentric doctor's antics then turned her attention to Jace, her face serious again._

 _"I wanted to know how you were doing after last night," she explained, her tone quiet. She touched his shoulder, as if she couldn't help the gesture. She had a faraway look in her eyes, like one who was remembering. "My handmaiden could tell that I was still shaken from everything that happened yesterday, so when I told her that I was going horse riding because I needed to clear my head, she didn't question it. She's used to me going horse riding almost every night… Only this time, I rode over to Magnus's—"_

 _"Then she convinced me to come down here to check on you because she was so very worried about her darling savior's condition," Magnus finished for her in an annoyed tone. He then turned to face Clary, his cat-like eyes narrowing._

 _"Did you know, you have a serious knack for showing up at my doorstep at the worst possible timing?" He muttered. "You interrupted me when I was about to—"_

 _"Spare me, please!" Clary held her hands up in front of her and shook her head back and forth vigorously. Her emerald green eyes were wide with mortification. "I don't want to hear it!"_

 _"Hasty as ever to jump to conclusions, aren't you?" Magnus rolled his eyes. "If you must know, there was nothing scandalous going on… Although you did interrupt me during a_ very _important moment."_

 _"Magnus…"_

 _"Fine, I won't tell you anything," he snapped. "But, oh, those beautiful blue eyes…" Magnus trailed off in a dreamy tone._

 _Clary shook her head, her cheeks tinted a rosy shade of pink. "Ignore him," she told Jace—not that he had been listening to Magnus in the first place. He was too preoccupied with staring at her, entranced by the fact that she was there—and definitely not in the form of a dream or a figment of his imagination either. "He has this obsession with people who have blue eyes. You're in the safe zone, as far as I'm concerned."_

 _"You're one to talk, little Missy," Magnus retorted saucily, causing Clary to blush an even deeper hue of scarlet. Jace didn't know why._

* * *

 **September 21, 508**

An entire week had passed since the horrendous whiplashing incident, and after spending all of his time being confined to his cell for recovery, Jace was finally declared well enough to resume his gladiator training and nightly duties at the royal stables.

Though he hated to admit it, he was actually excited to be back, despite the unsavory task of shoveling manure. The past couple of days had been an absolute bore. Being stuck in the dank cell all day long with no other company but Michael and Alec nearly drove him unhinged. If it weren't for Magnus's, and more importantly, _Clary's_ —or Thomas Clark's (he smiled remembering how Clary had looked like with the mustache)—nightly visits, he might have very well lost it.

A lazy smile adorned his lips as he recalled the past few nights he had spent in the princess's company. Ever since she learnt his name, Clary had been noticeably more forthcoming with Jace. They had joked more often and their little tête-à-tête sessions, albeit brief, had been more casual and relaxed.

Granted, they hadn't divulged into anything particularly personal or serious yet, especially since Magnus was almost always there in his cell with them, but he liked how they were able to just talk about trivial things without having to worry about upsetting each other.

He knew that pursuing this friendship with Clary was risky. What if she found out about his real identity? What if she was secretly spying on him for Valentine?

But as quickly as those doubts came, they were expelled just as swiftly. Jace knew that he hadn't known Clary all that long to be able to trust her completely, but he knew it in his heart that Clary was incapable of doing such things.

Firstly, anyone who paid close enough attention to her could see that she hated her own father, even if she would never admit out loud. But more than that, she was honest and pure… Even a blind person could tell that she would never do favors for her father.

Being with Clary, especially when he was fortunate enough to witness her smiling or giggling, made Jace happier than he had been in a long time. And if he were being completely honest with himself, he had never felt more _alive_.

"Jace!" Clary shrieked excitedly as she ran into the stables, her emerald green eyes sparkling with child-like happiness.

She dropped the cherry-colored picnic basket she had been carrying to the floor, and unexpectedly, she flung herself at him.

Not having enough time to brace himself for the force of her hug, Jace toppled over backwards, landing on his back on the hard tiled floor with Clary on top of him. She pressed her small hands against his chest and began to giggle heartily.

Jace would have found the graceless situation equally amusing if it weren't for the sharp pain that shot through his still tender back. He winced and groaned aloud without meaning to, and almost immediately, Clary's giggles ceased and her emerald green eyes widened with worry.

"Oh, Jace, are you okay? I'm so sorry. Oh God, that was so stupid of me—and extremely inappropriate!" She blushed heavily, as if she were chastising herself in her head. "Oh, what was I thinking? I wasn't thinking! You're still hurting. Oh God, forgive—I'm really sorry, Jace," she spluttered.

"Calm yourself, Milady…I'm fine. For goodness' sake, you really need to learn how to stop rambling," he interrupted her with an amused look.

His nose inadvertently brushed against hers, and Clary's eyes widened again upon realizing how dangerously close their faces were from each other. With a tiny squeak, she quickly scrambled to her feet, then occupied herself by brushing off the dirt from her emerald green gown.

Jace got up as well, though with much more elegance this time, and grinned at the sight of the princess's flaming scarlet cheeks.

"What did I say about calling me _Milady_?" Clary asked, her shaky voice betraying her nervousness. She had her hands planted firmly on her hips but there were still traces of her blush on her cheeks and the exposed skin of her clavicle.

"Old habits, I suppose. If you'll make you feel better, I'll just keep reminding myself to call you _Clary_." Her blush deepened when he drawled out her name, and she noticeably bit her lip to stifle her shy smile.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She asked softly. "Should I call Magnus? He doesn't live far from here. We could always drop by… I'm sure he won't mind."

Jace shook his head, inwardly touched by how concerned she was over his well-being. "Hush, Clary. I'm fine… Magnus did say that I might still be sore for a while. _Really._ It's nothing compared to the— _you know_ ," he said, avoiding any blatant mention of the whiplashing incident. He knew that Clary still felt guilty over it, even though he had told her countless times that it wasn't her fault. He hated seeing her upset.

"I shouldn't have been so reckless," she started, remorse filling her face. "I could've—"

"Clary," Jace scolded her lightly. She looked up at him and gave him a sheepish, barely there smile. "There's nothing to forgive. Now, tell me," he spoke in a more upbeat tone, "What are you doing here?" He smiled when it elicited a favorable response from her: a feisty huff and a slight narrowing of her eyes, as if she were offended by his question.

"Oh," she scoffed, "Would you prefer it if I left you alone?"

"No, just curious, little one. No need to be so _touchy_ ," he teased.

"I am not little!" She argued. "I'm turning sixteen tomorrow!"

"Wait a minute," Jace held up his hand, his face suddenly serious. "It's your birthday?"

" _To-mor-row_ ," Clary replied, enunciating each syllable in the word.

Her face turned bashful again, and she captured her bottom lip in between her teeth, gnawing on it lightly. She often did it when she was nervous or apprehensive of his response, he realized, which only served to drive him crazy. As if it weren't already a challenge trying to keep his questionable urges in check… _The little temptress!_

"Anyway," Clary said in a small voice, oblivious to the slightly perverted direction his thoughts had taken. "I wanted to ask you if you would like to spend the eve of my birthday with me." She lowered her chin while studiously avoiding gaze.

Jace quietly approached her and placed two fingers underneath her chin, gently tilting it up so that he could meet her eyes. The look she gave him was hesitant and meek, as if she were afraid that he would turn her down.

In all fairness, he _might_ have considered rejecting her…if it weren't for everything that had happened this past week.

Now, she could tell him to do just about anything and he would do it. He was about to tell her so when she said something that caught him completely off-guard:

"I brought cakes. The honey ones, to be exact."

Jace couldn't help himself—he snorted with laughter. "Bribing me with honey cakes? You're trying to make me fat, aren't you?" He asked, failing miserably at his attempt of a solemn demeanor.

In addition to Clary's little visits, she had also been spoiling him treats—snacks from _Taki's_ mostly—and it was beginning to turn him into a sugar-obsessed child.

"You said you liked honey cakes," Clary pouted.

"I never did claim otherwise," he chuckled. "But if I suddenly lose my perfectly-chiseled abs, I'm blaming _you_ ," he said, punctuating his statement with a nudge to her nose.

Clary scoffed as he turned away from her. "Oh, please, it's not like anyone's going to see your abs anyway when you're fighting in the arena. No one's going to notice, much less care, if you're chubbier. And I beg to differ, your abs aren't as _perfect_ as you think they are," she retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.

Jace's eyes widened as he spun around dramatically. "Oh, how you wound me so, _Milady_!" He jested, placing his hand over his heart in mock-hurt.

Clary rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "I swear… You and Jonathan should be best friends. You're both just as equally obnoxious as the other."

"Mmm, and you're, strangely, _not_ as innocent as I thought you were, _Mister_ Clark…" he remarked, the side of his mouth twitching into a sly half-grin.

Clary grimaced at the sound of her male alias. "What is that supposed to mean?"

" _Ogling_ at my abs…"

Clary spluttered and blushed furiously—again. "I was not…ogling!" Jace smirked widely at her defensive retort. "It wasn't as if I _couldn't_ look anyway. I was the one changing your bandages!"

"Oh, Clary, Clary, Clary…" Jace clicked his tongue at her mockingly. "So the entire time you were 'nursing' me back to health, you were trying to take advantage of me as well?"

"YOU CONCEITED JACKASS! I WOULD NEVER!"

When Clary flung a horseshoe in his direction—he wasn't quite sure how the horseshoe found its way into her hands in the first place—Jace roared with raucous laughter as he easily dodged the infernal item.

"Okay, okay. It seems that I have tortured you enough," he said, trying hard to control himself. Fleetingly, he was tempted to point out that Clary had terrible aim, but he didn't think that she would appreciate his comment all that much.

"Are you done?" She asked in between gritted teeth.

Jace suspected that she was actually more embarrassed than angry at him but said nothing of it. He grinned as he walked towards the horses' stall, with a saddle slung casually over each shoulder. Wayfarer nickered and greeted him with his usual enthusiasm and affection, even going as far as to nuzzle his head into the crook of Jace's neck.

"Now," Jace said, "if you're done being a _tomato_ "—Clary narrowed her eyes at him and turned impossibly redder—"I think it'd be best if we get going while the night is still young."

There was a long pregnant pause as Clary took in his words. She dropped a second horseshoe to the ground—again, he didn't know how she managed to get ahold of one, much less two horseshoes—and just stared at him as he mounted Wayfarer.

Finally, she cracked a huge grin and began bouncing on her toes enthusiastically. "We're celebrating my birthday? You're saying yes?"

He grinned as he walked Wayfarer and The Countess towards her. "I thought I made it painfully obvious when I grabbed the horses' saddles."

He offered his hand to her to help her up The Countess. She grabbed it without hesitation, giggling when he pulled her up her own horse as if she weighed nothing.

The sight of her flashing smile sent his stomach buzzing with excitement and nervousness, and he looked down to clear his throat shakily. "And besides," he attempted, masking his nerves with nonchalance, "How can I possibly say no to _honey cakes_?"

* * *

What had started off as a joyous, peaceful ride soon turned into one that was completely daunting and perturbing. Clary had half-expected Jace to be leading them to Lake Lyn, but instead he'd made a complete detour, and now they were trapped inside the dark and foreboding stretches of Forbidden Forest, like two rats in a maze.

" _Jace_ ," Clary whimpered, her arms tightening around her reins like a vise grip. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her chest that she was certain the sound of her wild heartbeat could be heard echoing off the trees in the forest.

"Jace," she pleaded with him again.

"Shh, Clary. It's all right. Don't worry about it. We're not lost," Jace replied, not sounding in the least bit unsettled.

Clary wasn't sure whether to take his confidence as a positive sign that he genuinely knew where he was going, or that he was simply being his complacent and egotistical self. She hoped to God it was the former. She didn't know how long she could survive being in there… It was called the _Forbidden_ Forest for a reason!

How she wanted to smack him senseless with the picnic basket for dragging her in there. But then, it wouldn't do her any good if her only guide was knocked out cold, would it?

Overhead, the moonlight cast ominous shadows on everything that it touched. Cedar trees towered above them sinisterly like the dark, malevolent spirits of the forest; angry, deformed faces materializing from the gnarled and twisted bark of the tree trunks. Their crooked, sprawling branches molded into the shape of grisly, unearthly talons, and shadows—baleful shadows—haunted the couple from every corner, forming the illusion of monstrous apparitions.

As the loud hooting of an owl penetrated the still air, Clary whimpered loudly and buried her face into The Countess's neck.

"Jace!"

He stumbled a little when The Countess incidentally bumped into Wayfarer, but other than that, he managed to keep himself upright and steady. Realizing that Clary was as good as useless when it came to commandeering The Countess in her present state, he decided to take her reins and pulled her horse at a safe distance alongside his.

"Shh, Clary, just relax. We're almost there," he told her in a sonorous voice.

Despite herself, Clary rolled her eyes in response, wondering exasperatedly where "there" was supposed to be. Did he even know where he was going? Was there even a remotely _safe_ place in the Forbidden Forest?

But true to Jace's promise, both of their horses' trots soon slowed down to a halt.

Warily, Clary lifted her head from The Countess's neck, and instantly, dread filled her again.

They were in a no better place than they were over twenty minutes ago. She didn't recognize anything that was familiar or offered her the impression of safety. It was just _dark_.

"What… _Where_ are we, Jace?" Her voice trembled.

Again, Jace showed no signs of apprehension as he dismounted his brown steed. He landed on the ground with a soft thud then offered her his hand.

"Come on, Clary." His expression implored her to trust him, and hesitantly, she did.

As soon as her feet landed on solid ground, she unthinkingly tucked herself into Jace's side, her hands yanking the material of his tunic tightly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hauled her closer to him, before retrieving the basket from her shaking hands.

"Come on," he repeated as he led her deeper into the glade.

They both came to a stop once they reached the edge of the clearing. An enormous tree stood in their path; it was like nothing at all Clary had ever seen, grotesque, yet strangely beautiful at the same time.

Its trunk was massive and sturdy, with swirling vines that interwove with one another, forming a series of intricate knots. Thick, long branches—embellished with various hues of green that fluttered lightly against the soft night breeze—protruded from the tree, extending in wild directions while forming an ornate pattern that resembled a spider web.

But none of them captured her attention as much its actual striking feature: a tall archway formed in the middle of its trunk. It could easily be passed off as a mystical portal to another dimension. A canopy of billowing leaves hung down from it like an old, worn tapestry, obscuring the panorama that laid beyond the mysterious, old tree.

"We don't have time to stare at it all night long, Clary."

It was only after Jace had tugged her forward, in the direction of the veiled archway that she realized she had been frozen to the spot for over a minute, silently gaping at it. She turned her head towards him, deep creases formed on her forehead, but he only smiled at her in return.

 _What is he doing?_ Clary began to panic. What if there were snakes or other carnivorous creatures hiding behind that archway, secretly waiting to pounce and feast on their human flesh? Or worse, what if there were supernatural beings guarding the place, biding their time to lead them to some other transcendental realm, where they could never escape?

Clary knew that she was being irrational by conjuring up a bunch of ridiculous theories, but at this point, she couldn't help it. Was Jace crazy?

 _Oh my God! What if he is crazy and psychotic?_ She thought worriedly. _Maybe he's been hiding the fact that he was distressed this whole time and is trying to retaliate by killing me! It makes sense—I was the reason he nearly_ died _. Oh no, he's going to murder me, and then he's going to dump my body here and leave me to rot where no one else can find me!_

Clary's eyes widened in fear, and without warning, she let out a loud, ear-piercing scream.

It achieved the desired effect as Jace stepped away from her frantically and reeled over backwards, landing rather clumsily on his backside. The picnic basket he had been carrying landed on the ground in an overturned position, but neither of them paid any mind to it.

They were both staring at each other wide-eyed, Jace obviously stunned and Clary hysterical over the possibility of her losing her _life._

She held her hands out in front of her as if to ward him away, and then, before either of them could comprehend what was going on, she burst into a run, heading towards the horses.

It took Jace only a second to regroup himself, and then, he was up on his feet, his long strides easily catching up with her.

Clary was about to mount The Countess when she felt Jace's strong, muscular arms grabbing her from behind, yanking her body back to his. She panicked and began throwing small punches on his arms, willing him to free her, but he didn't budge. In fact, he only held onto her tighter.

"Let go of me!" She shrieked frantically. "Jace! Let go!"

In a desperate attempt to free herself, Clary bit down hard on Jace's arm, and he effectively released her, muttering curses as he examined the new tiny teeth marks on his arm.

Stumbling haphazardly to the ground, she hastily crawled behind The Countess, using the white horse as a shield to protect herself from the gladiator. She peeked in between the horse's legs at Jace and saw him eyeing her queerly, as though he was mulling over the possibility that she had gone insane.

"Clary, what the hell is wrong with you?" He asked her in disbelief.

" _You_ —you were going to kill me then dump my body into some—some _swamp_!" She yelled as tears began pouring down from her eyes.

Jace gave her a look of pure incredulity at her accusation, and then to her surprise, he doubled over in manic laughter, clutching his stomach as he did.

"What the hell is so funny?" Clary demanded. Her cheeks were still stained with tears but she was no longer crying.

Inwardly, she knew that she should be feeling terrified. There was nothing about the situation that warranted any laughter, yet there he was, amused for no absolute reason that she could comprehend.

It was disconcerting, but at the same time, she felt unbelievably outraged. She had given him her trust and he'd betrayed her, mocking her with laughter in her final moments. How could anyone be so _sick_?

"You—you thought I was—going to kill you!" Jace managed to snort out in between bouts of unhindered laughter.

He clutched at his stomach again and Clary waited for several minutes before he finally calmed down, a huge infuriating grin plastered onto his face. She growled at him, and the grin instantly fell from his lips.

Slowly, he walked towards her and gently heaved her off of the ground. He then brought her to his chest and hugged her to him lightly. Clary protested against him, still feeling angry and doubtful, but mostly embarrassed by her own stupidity.

"Clary, where did you get that crazy notion from?" Jace asked her in a gentle voice, though she could tell that he was trying to control himself from laughing again.

"You were going to drag me to that weird, scary tree," she replied thinly. She looked up at him and glared. "Obviously, my imagination ran wild. I thought you wanted to kill me for revenge on the whole whiplashing incident with Sebastian."

Jace's eyes softened. "I know. And I'll admit—dragging you to that tree must have seemed very… _shady_ of me. But Clary, I've already told you—I don't blame you for that incident with Se _bastard_. You trust me, don't you? I'll never let anything bad happen to you. I promise." His tone was reassuring and sincere that Clary couldn't help but forgive him. It was her own fault for jumping to asinine conclusions anyway, not his.

She nodded slowly. "But Jace, why are we going into that tree?" She asked, subconsciously placing her hands on his waist.

Jace smirked. "That's for me to know, and for you to find out," he simply replied.

Taking her smaller hand into his much larger one, he tugged her towards the tree again. Clary didn't move, only stiffened and looked apprehensive.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jace," she said, eyeing the archway suspiciously. "Why don't we go to Lake Lyn instead? At least I'm familiar with that area…"

Jace shook his head. "Oh, come on, Clary. Have a little faith in me," he pleaded with her.

Clary gave him a pointed look, which he returned with an uncharacteristic puppy dog expression—wide golden eyes, deep pout and all. It was infuriatingly hard to say no to him when he looked at her like that, so with a deep sigh, she hesitantly took a step forward and then another, until they were finally standing in front of the veiled entrance of the tree.

"Almost there," Jace said excitedly.

He let go of her for a brief moment to retrieve the neglected picnic basket, then took her hand in his again. Clary subconsciously tightened her grip as she glanced at the archway.

"You better not make me regret my decision of trusting you," she grumbled, hating how her voice shook with nervousness. "And just so we're clear—If I _die_ , I'll make sure to haunt you for the rest of your life," she warned.

Jace cocked an eyebrow at her expertly. "Look at you… Not even sixteen and already making threats. My, my, Clary…how you've _grown_ ," he teased her.

"Don't you even get me started about my height, you sarcastic idiot," she muttered, hoping to ignite another banter that would help stall him for another minute or two.

It didn't work. Jace only smirked at her as he pulled her towards the leaf-infested archway.

"Don't worry," he said. "I don't think we'll run into any snakes."

"What?" Clary nearly shrieked.

"No more screaming, please. My ears have endured enough damage for today." Jace grinned. "I was just joking about the snakes, by the way," he told her with a wink.

"After you, Milady," he inclined his head to the side, nudging her towards the entrance.

Clary chewed on her bottom lip nervously as she stared the archway down. She could see nothing beyond the mass of thick vines and leaves, and rightfully, she was afraid.

What was it that awaited her on the other side? Did Jace even have a clue of where they would end up? Did she trust him enough to take that leap of faith for him?

Her answer was revealed to her the instant she looked into his eyes, her mind replaying his sacrifice—of how he had thrown his body on the line for her.

If he could take leaps, to dive off a metaphorical cliff for her, then she could too. She would do it for him, at least.

So with a deep intake of breath, Clary entered the archway.

* * *

 _Beautiful_ was an understatement to describe the enchanting view that greeted them as they arrived at the other side of the archway.

There, as far as the eye could see, was a meadow. It stretched on for miles upon miles, a glorious and almost-divine expanse of lush green grass, festooned with a multitude of flowers—reds, yellows, purples and whites clashed against each other in a riot of colors.

Clary recognized some of the species of flowers from her botany books—rose mallows, marigolds, cape daisies, wild birds, corn chamomiles and a dozen more she barely even remembered herself. Yet, an even more breathtaking sight was the myriad of fireflies that floated amongst the flora, radiating a swarm of bright yellow luster that was even more brilliant than any of the stars that hung in the night sky.

Suddenly, Clary's initial thoughts about magical portals didn't seem so far-fetched. How could such beauty exist in the Forbidden Forest, a place known for dark spirits, wild creatures and death?

But that was the reality of the world, she realized. Everything was a mixture of beautiful and hideous, good and bad, and light and dark. For there to be a balance, paradoxes needed to exist.

In this case, the Forbidden Forest was just an illusion that concealed this beauty from the eyes of people who cowered away from it and failed to search deeper. She was grateful that she wasn't one of those people.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jace's resonant voice broke Clary out of her reverie. She had been so enamored by the magical sight that she had completely forgotten about his presence.

"Breathtaking," she whispered, finding the lack of ability to take her eyes off of the meadow.

Clary shook her head and let out a breathless laugh. "It's…odd," she said, so quiet she could have been speaking to herself. "I hadn't been expecting this at all. This whole time, they kept telling everyone to stay out of the Forbidden Forest. I would have never seen such beauty if it weren't for you… Thank you, Jace."

Jace smiled at her. Her emerald eyes were shimmering with complete wonderment that it made his heart melt. He had his reservations before but seeing her reaction now was worth every little doubt he'd had. She loved the meadow more than he thought possible, but more importantly than that, he had made her happy by sharing this gift with her.

Gently, he twined his fingers with her smaller ones, tugging her hand lightly to get her attention. He noticed her reluctance as she peeled her eyes away from the meadow and begrudgingly spared him a glance, a questioning look etched onto her porcelain face.

"What is it?" She asked. "Do we have to leave already?"

"Not yet," Jace chuckled. "Although…we don't have all night for you to keep staring at it," he repeated the words he'd said to her earlier with a large smile.

Clary rolled her eyes at him but smiled nonetheless. There was a faint blush on her cheeks, and she squeezed his hand gently, as if conveying her apology for her premature skepticism.

"Come, Clary," he said, leading the way into the meadow.

Clary giggled softly and wordlessly followed, her insides imploding with excitement. As Jace tugged her down to sit, she eagerly complied, soaking in the feeling of the grass against her body. It was soft, surprisingly even softer than any silk that had ever graced her skin.

She inhaled the scent that wafted through the air deeply—the sweet-smelling fragrance of flowers mixed with the fresh, earthy smell of rich soil.

"Is this really real?" Clary looked up at Jace, who was observing her with a small smile. He nodded. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" She asked again, and this time, he shook his head.

"No, you're not. We're really here," he said softly.

Clary looked away from his smouldering gaze and absentmindedly ran her fingers over the grass. She delicately caressed the soft petal of a flower belonging to a plant she didn't recognize.

The flower was rather oddly shaped, slightly hairy in texture, and its color was a soft blend of white and lilac.

"That's _Clary Sage_ ," Jace told her after watching her finger the petal of the flower curiously.

Clary looked up at him, a look of surprise on her face, mostly because of the stark realization that the flower was her namesake.

"It's beautiful," she returned, not knowing what else to say.

His aureate eyes fixated on her, staring at her with such intensity that made her speechless. "Just like you," he said earnestly.

Clary blushed and looked away, distractedly reaching for the picnic basket. She took out the container that held the honey cakes she had purchased from _Taki's_ earlier that afternoon, and gently removed the lid. The sight that greeted her caused her lips to turn into a frown.

"They're all ruined," she said sullenly.

Jace took the box from her hands. He wouldn't go as far as to say that they cakes were 'ruined', just not in tip-top condition as he assumed they originally were.

"Oh well…at least they're still edible. It's your fault I dropped the basket just now anyway, what with you screaming like you're part-banshee. You're lucky I didn't die of a heart attack. Otherwise, you'd be trapped in this forest forever," he commented flippantly.

Clary narrowed her eyes at him. "My fault? Are you honestly blaming me now?" She scoffed indignantly. "Why, yes, now that I think of it, of course it's _my_ fault! After all, anyone in their right minds _wouldn't_ get suspicious and freak out when they're being dragged into the Forbidden Forest and into an even creepier tree!" She retorted, laying on the sarcasm thick.

"You have such little faith in me…" Jace placed a hand over his heart in mock-hurt. "Surely you must've heard of the expression that things aren't always what they seem."

His response, in turn, caused Clary to smirk. "Hmm, I quite agree with that expression, especially where _you_ are concerned. I mean, who would've thought that underneath all that hard muscle, you were just a jumpy little boy? I mean, it took one little scream to knock you off your feet—literally," she mocked him.

"Oh, don't even go there, missy. I'll have you know that _nothing_ gets to Jace Her—" He caught himself before he could let his surname slip.

Clary quirked an eyebrow. "Her—?"

Jace cleared his throat loudly. "Nothing. I just thought there was something on your _hair_. It's gone now," he lied smoothly.

Clary shrugged. "You are such a weird boy." She shook her head before reaching for another honey cake herself.

And just like that, Jace's almost slip-up was forgotten.

* * *

As they devoured their cakes contentedly, Clary suggested a game to get to know each other better. The rules were simple enough; they basically had to take turns asking each other questions and the other had to answer them without any objections.

Jace was skeptical at first, but when Clary had flashed the 'But it's my birthday!' card, he had no choice but to cave in to her wishes.

Still, despite her promise that they would avoid asking each other any intimate or sensitive questions, the general idea of someone asking him things about himself unnerved him. He didn't like talking about himself, even if he had the tendency to come across as an arrogant showboater to his fellow competitors and strangers alike.

On the other hand, he _did_ enjoy learning new things about Clary. It made getting to know her and their 'friendship' seem all the more real.

With each new information he pieced about her, he began to see that she wasn't just the princess of Idris, or Valentine's daughter, or the girl with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes. She was _more_ than that… She was _Clary_ , a person of her own.

In all but a span of ten minutes, Jace learned that Clary loved horses and books, was a terrible dancer, but a fairly decent artist like her mother. She told him that she loved sketching in her free time, and only occasionally dabbled with paints, the reason for the latter being that it was too much of a hassle to clean up afterwards— _and_ it was also a greater challenge finding a place to hide her work.

"My father doesn't approve of my love for art," she had reluctantly offered him that tiny detail. "To him, art is just an unproductive use of time and a waste of resources. A good queen serves her king by bearing his children, not producing pieces of trash unworthy of a place on his palace walls."

Noticing how the mention of her father had put a damper on her mood, Jace had immediately teased her by offering to become her nude model, claiming that his looks could easily put Adonis's to shame.

"I would put up that masterpiece in my cell," he'd smirked at her. "I'll be the first gladiator to have a nude portrait commissioned."

It had worked in his favor as Clary returned his jest with a much endearing blush. "T-that's— _very inappropriate_ ," she had said, her face burning a bright red that almost matched her hair. "But I wouldn't mind doing a face sketch of you the next time we're here."

Jace had smiled when she'd said that. _Next time_. She was already looking forward to making more trips to the meadow with him. He unknowingly struck it off as a major accomplishment in his book.

His happiness, however, was short-lived as they began talking about something Jace resented almost as much as Valentine:

 _Ducks._

Clary giggled heartily. "So you're saying that if you were given the choice of whether to fight against a pack of lions or a flock of ducks in the arena, you would choose to fight lions instead?" Her eyes were crinkled with so much joy that Jace would have laughed too, if it weren't for the fact that she was only amused at his expense.

So he settled for leveling her with an incredulous look instead. "Yes Clary, I'm saying that exactly," he said flatly.

She giggled again. "But Jace, ducks are so cute! They're so fluffy and cuddly, and besides, I've always wanted a little duckling as a pet!"

Jace stared wide-eyed at her as if she had suddenly sprouted two heads. "Never, _ever_ trust a duck or call it 'cute', Clarissa. Those devious little creatures… Have you ever seen their eyes? They're beady, like a demon's. I bet they're a bunch of bloodthirsty cannibals too," he gritted out, causing Clary to laugh even harder.

"Ah, whatever you say, Jace." She grinned at him widely.

After a while, they lapsed into a companionable silence, basking in the peacefulness of the meadow… That is, until Clary finally chose to speak up again.

"Jace, how did you find this place?" She asked, sparing him an intent look.

Jace stiffened as he swallowed the last bite of cake in his mouth almost painfully.

The question was simple and straightforward, but he knew that the answer wasn't. In hindsight, he probably should have anticipated her question…

But he had been so blinded by his own excitement to make her birthday celebration a special one, worthy of her remembering years from now, that he'd completely forgotten and slipped. How could he have been so stupid and careless?

 _Maybe if you had thought with your head instead of what lies down south, you could have avoided this situation_ , his snide conscience remarked.

 _Oh, shut up_ , Jace thought, bristling at the jab his own subconscious had come up with. _No one even asked you—Oh Lord, why am I arguing with myself AGAIN?_

In the midst of his frustration, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to mull over Clary's question.

Truthfully, of course, the reason he had known about this place was because of his parents; they had brought him here when he was only five years old. It was one of those life-changing moments in his life, so he recalled that day perfectly.

Just like Clary, he had been utterly terrified (and had very nearly wet his own trousers) when his father had dragged him through the archway in the old tree. And just like Clary, he had been completely awed when he first saw the enchanting meadow.

At one point, little Jace had been convinced that he'd stepped into a land of fantasy and had been mildly disappointed when he discovered that the fireflies weren't faeries after all, and that there was no possible chance for him to meet a centaur or a dragon or even a leprechaun. "Even the things that we may perceive as magic has its limitations," his mother had told him with a chuckle.

Later, as they had sat down and enjoyed their picnic, his father had recounted to him about his adventures as a young man, exploring the unmapped territories of Idris. He'd told him about how it had been a mere coincidence when he discovered the meadow, and how often he'd returned to the place since then. When his mother came into his life, his father took her there as well. "This is _our_ place," Stephen had told him proudly.

 _Our place_ , Jace thought. _And now,_ _this place belongs to Clary, too._

"Jace?" Clary's voice broke him out of his deep rumination.

"Hmm?" He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear his mind off of his thoughts.

"Are you okay?" She asked, looking concerned for him.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just remembering," he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

As he reassessed the situation, he realized then that he didn't quite know why he had even brought Clary to the meadow in the first place. Divine intervention was always the most convenient excuse, but he reckoned that, perhaps, the more likely reason was this: that despite the fact that his mind kept insisting that he couldn't, _shouldn't_ trust Clary enough to tell her about his real identity, his heart still yearned for him to open up to her.

And of course, what better way to open up to her than by bringing her to a place that was close to his heart?

Maybe in a sense, his heart was telling him that he _did_ trust Clary. If only things weren't as complicated as they were…

"It's just that—I-I don't know how to say this," Jace stammered. Clary reached for both of his hands and squeezed them gently in assurance. It was unexpectedly comforting, so he didn't pull away from her touch.

"Can you—Can you keep a secret?" He finally asked in a small voice.

His heart was beating so fast and hard in his chest, and Jace felt momentarily overwhelmed by the vulnerability and fear that had so suddenly taken up residence in his heart. It had been so long since he had felt such fear—since the night of his parents' untimely demise, in fact—and it unsettled him.

"Yes." She smiled at him encouragingly.

He subconsciously squeezed her hands tighter, feeling comfort and a tiny bit of confidence radiating from her touch. He sighed resignedly.

"I used to live here, in Idris," he said, "before I became I slave…"

Clary was quiet as she processed his words, and she rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. He looked at her warily, noticing how she was looking at him without the usual overbearing curiosity, but with sympathy and sadness. Strangely enough, it didn't throw him off. He didn't like feeling pitied, but when it came from Clary, it didn't quite feel that way. She looked at him as if she _understood_.

"So," she began carefully, "I take it your parents used to take you here?"

Jace winced noticeably and looked away from her with a nod. A lump was beginning to form in his throat, and he didn't think he was capable of speech at the moment.

To his surprise, Clary didn't push it. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Jace nodded and gave her a small smile to convey his apology—for not being able to tell her about his past—and his gratitude towards her—for her not pushing him to tell her about it. She gave him a small smile in return then offered him the last cake.

"Thanks, Clary," he said, his tone quiet. He looked away from her as he took a bite out of his cake, appearing to be lost in his own thoughts.

Clary smiled at him. "You're welcome, Jace," she said, though judging from the glazed and distant look in his eyes, she knew that he probably didn't hear her.

But it didn't matter. The point of it all was that she knew better. She wasn't going to pry anything from Jace if he wasn't comfortable with talking about it. She was curious about his past life in Idris but she had learned from their past few encounters that she should never push him to tell her things he didn't want to. She could see from his face how much it hurt him to remember his past—it was definitely the chink in his armor.

She knew now that his entire masculine ego and arrogance was just a façade, a mask he turned to to hide his real feelings, his insecurities. Underneath all of his perfection, he was really just a little boy—scared and vulnerable and lost.

Yet, Clary found that she wasn't turned off by his flaws; it only made him seem more of a human, and she liked that about him.

In the far distance, the bell constructed atop the famous clock tower of Idris tolled twelve times, signaling that it was already midnight.

Clary's eyes widened in shock as she realized that not only had she been spending a whole three hours with Jace, but she had just missed her curfew as well. What if someone came into her room to check in on her and found her missing? Granted, that rarely ever happened, and the only other people who would visit her chambers at night would be Isabelle or her brother, but she knew better than to tempt fate.

And, if by some measure of rotten luck, HER FATHER were to find out, he would probably send out a search party for her, and that would definitely result in disastrous consequences for her, and _especially_ Jace.

 _Oh my God—Jace! He would probably be accused of abducting me and then Father would most likely sentence him to death!_ She thought worriedly.

"Jace! We have to go! Now!" Clary almost screamed at him as she scrambled to her feet.

He looked at her in confusion, and she wondered if he had even heard the bell at all. "What?"

"It's midnight!"

He furrowed his eyebrows at her, as if he still didn't understand.

"I've just missed my curfew," Clary explained in a harried tone. "If anyone finds out that I'm missing from my room, we'll both be dead! Please, Jace, we have to go!" She said urgently, tugging at his arm to force him up onto his feet.

Hearing the insistence in her voice, Jace quickly got up. Clary was clearly in a state of frenzy, and he wasn't going to go against her wishes. Besides, she did have a point. They needed to get back before Simon or Michael returned to the stables to find _him_ missing, only to show up with the princess minutes later.

He could imagine the sort of trouble he would be in then. The gladiator and the princess? How remarkably scandalous!

 _Time passes by too quickly,_ he thought in passing.

"Hurry, Jace!"

Clary tugged at his arm urgently before her impatience got the best of her. In her haste to leave, she mistakably took a huge step forward, noticing only far too late that the picnic basket was obstructing her way. As she lost her footing, tumbling forward with flailing arms and tightly squeezed eyelids, she braced herself for the impact of the fall—

But it never came.

Strong hands clutched her by her waist, and Clary felt herself being hauled backwards into Jace's muscular arms, her back pressed up against his chest. Her heartbeat sped up, and as she turned around to thank Jace, he tilted his face down towards her, and caught her lips with his.

* * *

Jace didn't know what he was doing, but for once in his life, he didn't care.

He faintly registered the sound of Clary's gasp as their lips touched, but even then, he didn't shy away from her. Her mouth stilled against his, hard and unrelenting for the first few seconds before she responded to him tentatively, their mouths moving together fluidly as if performing a perfectly harmonized duet.

He had never had much experience with kissing girls to compare it to such a metaphor, but he _had_ known music, having spent hours in his childhood sat perched on his windowsill as he strummed his lute to form its own brand of poetry. It had been the closest he had ever felt to achieving a sense of fulfillment.

Kissing Clary felt like that—and _more_.

He gently maneuvered her within the circle of his arms and pulled her body flush against his, dipping her head backwards to deepen the kiss. Clary's hands threaded through his soft, lustrous curls, pulling his face closer to hers. His own left arm held her securely against his body, one hand resting on her waist while the other wove itself through her long red tresses.

Too soon, the need for air forced them to resurface and they pulled themselves away from each other. They were both panting heavily, as though they had just ran from one corner of the meadow to the other…but they were smiling, their bodies thrumming with euphoria from that single kiss. Jace leaned his forehead against Clary's, their breaths intermingling.

"We really need to go," she panted, her emerald green eyes gazing deeply into his golden ones. Her pupils were dilated with desire, as he imagined his own were.

"All right. Let's go," he reluctantly complied, but only after placing another small peck by the corner of her mouth.

They broke out of their embrace before heading back to the forest clearing—all the while their hands remained entwined with each other.

* * *

The ride back to the royal stables was in peaceful silence.

Every so often, Clary and Jace would steal glances at each other while they rode their horses, then break into a shy smile or an embarrassed laugh. Everything about their exchange screamed innocence—which was what both of them, admittedly, were.

Before Jace, Clary had never felt the desire to touch a man who wasn't family, much less kiss one! But she had thrown it all out of the window for that one gladiator—all her lessons on propriety, on upholding her conservative morals, gone! Truthfully, she was embarrassed that she had succumbed to him so easily, that she hadn't had the strength to restrain herself enough. Was that considered as sinning? What would her brother say if he were to find out? What would her mother have said? Clary shook her head at her inner turmoil.

But despite herself, she couldn't bring herself to regret it completely. Kissing Jace had been, in a word, surreal. At the very least, she lost her first kiss to a man who had shown her nothing but compassion and respect in the time they had known each other.

Clary only wished that Jace had been born a prince instead of a gladiator. Oh, she would've married him in a heartbeat!

Just the thought of being wed to someone else, of kissing another man's lips, felt wrong.

She sighed wearily at the thought. At this point though, she just hoped that no one would notice her missing from the palace and go searching for her. She didn't want to be the reason for Jace getting into trouble, not when her night had been so unbelievably perfect so far.

* * *

When they finally reached their destination, Clary jumped off of The Countess, her green eyes shifting about anxiously as she scanned the stables.

Jace did the same thing, though much more discreetly, searching for signs of his master or of Simon's presence. Neither were there, which wasn't uncommon, he realized. Michael had a habit of being tardy and Simon didn't quite care about him to actually be there.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he walked Wayfarer and The Countess over to their respective stalls and began his routine of unsaddling and unbridling the horses, mindful to complete the tasks quickly. When he was done, he secured the bolts to the horses' enclosures, then returned the items to their designated stations.

Finally when he turned around, he found Clary standing behind him, wringing her hands in a gesture of nervous anticipation.

"What happens now? Between the two of us?" Clary asked timidly, her green eyes not daring to look into his aureate ones.

Jace sighed heavily. "I don't know, Clary," he replied after a while. "Things—it's just complicated between us. I'm _me_ and you're…you. I don't know how—"

"But you _do_ want to be with me, don't you?" She interrupted, her eyes glazing with unshed tears when she finally made eye contact with him.

Jace froze for a moment at the straightforwardness of Clary's question.

Did he want to be with her?

His answer came, faster than he thought it would. _Yes. Of course I do._

He didn't understand the depth of his feelings for her, but he already knew without a shred of a doubt that he at least _liked_ Clary.

It didn't matter if she was infuriating and made him mad at times. The point was, she made him feel _something_. And that was better than just living his life like an empty vessel, never truly able to feel anything. It all came down to whether it would be worth the risk.

Was Clary worth the chance? Would it all be worth it, to free-fall into the unknown?

His mind replayed the kiss that he had shared with her in the meadow, how his heart had raced with so much adrenaline, and dared he say it, happiness. In those few moments, he'd allowed his mind to completely erase his worries, his past, and his quest for revenge—and he would be lying if he said that it hadn't been liberating.

Was it right to feel this way though? Was he being selfish for wanting Clary more than he wanted to kill Valentine—possibly more than he wanted to avenge his parents?

"I do," Jace said, his tone as unwavering as the determination reflected in his golden eyes. "I want there to be an… _us_. There's nothing I want more than that, nothing I want more than you. I'm not going to lie. I really like you, Clary, and I want you to give me a chance—to give _us_ a chance," he said earnestly. "You will, won't you? You'll give us a chance?"

Clary smiled as a happy tear ran down her cheek. "Of course. Even if it's nearly impossible, I still want to be with you." She blushed then, looking at him from underneath her eyelashes. "And I really like you too, Jace," she admitted, biting her lip abashedly.

Jace chuckled as he carefully tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

Clary's breath hitched at the gesture, even more so when he proceeded to swipe the errant tear away from her cheek. It was a habit of nature, but Clary couldn't help it. As much as she felt safe in Jace's presence, she couldn't stop herself from feeling wary of his—of _anyone's_ —touch that bordered anywhere within the perimeters of her face. How many times already had similar 'touches' left her with a stinging cheek?

"Then, will you, Milady, grant me the honor of courting you?" He asked her in a formal tone.

Clary smiled at him and raised her hand, just only managing to control it from shaking. Jace didn't seem to notice as he gently grabbed her fingers and planted a soft kiss on the back of her hand, his lips lingering on her skin.

"Yes," Clary finally said. Then as an after-thought, she added, "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Jace. But I think it would be best if we're to restrain ourselves from kissing each other again so soon. It's not that I didn't enjoy it," she said quickly, "But I don't want our relationship to be built based on our physical desires for each other. Besides, I would like to observe tradition as far as possible. I—"

"I understand, Clary," Jace said in an earnest tone. "And I respect that. I promise to refrain from imposing on your boundaries for the duration of our courtship."

Clary only nodded.

"Will you come meet me, tomorrow night?" He asked.

Clary nodded comprehendingly. "Tomorrow night. I'll see you then." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, before turning to leave.

"Clary?" His voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned back to look at him expectantly. He grinned at her. "Happy Birthday, Clarissa."

Clary blushed like the smitten young girl that she was and said softly, "This has been the happiest birthday for me, do you know that?"

"Of course," he replied smugly.

She rolled her eyes with a huff. "I should have expected that," she said as she headed for the exit of the stables. She paused just as she reached the doorway and smiled. "Good night, Jace."

Jace returned her smile. "Good night, Clary," he replied in a gentle whisper.

Even long after she had vanished from his sight, he continued to grin to himself, his fingers lightly tracing his lips as he reminisced about their first kiss in the meadow. Pursuing this relationship with Clary was risky, but for now, he didn't want to worry about the consequences.

He wanted to feel happy—even if it only lasted for one night.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ ** _Let me know your thoughts on this chapter. I'll PM you a SNIPPET_ _of the next one if you leave me a review :)_**

 ** _Old readers... Did you like the first scene where Clary (alias Clark) visited Jace in the cells? Cos I totally just wrote that new scene in._**

 _ **Also, thank you to Aubrey Kelly, Jling, the0tmi0love0sh, Creatify and guest reviewers for your reviews last chapter. I truly appreciate them all! To**_ ** _the0tmi0love0sh, I apologise for not sending you a snippet, but apparently your account disabled the PM feature? Guest reviewers_** ** _—S_** ** _orry guys, but it's just not possible to PM you unless you have an account :( but I am grateful nonetheless for your kind reviews!_**

* * *

 _ **OK, so long A/N ahead for those who bother to read Author's Notes:**_

 ** _So in the original version, Clary and Jace were a lot more touchy-touchy with each other, in a sense that they were kinda more open towards holding and kissing each other, even at the beginning of their relationship. But when I was reviewing the story, I decided that I needed to change this bit. Here's how I would justify it:_**

 ** _1\. Conservative Background_**

 ** _Long before_** ** _the barbarism of the gladiator games were introduced into Idris by Valentine, I have reason to believe that conservatism played a huge part in constructing the values of the Idrisian society_** ** _—_ _as well as societies that exist in their neighbouring kingdoms. As such, these values would have been embedded into generations of Idrisians_** ** _—_** ** _including the Morgenstern and Herondale families_** ** _—_** ** _and translate into their habits and views of how to conduct themselves in relationships._**

 _ **Such is in Clary's case; her reservedness remains very much an integral part of her character because of her upbringing (and when I say 'upbringing', we can quite safely assume that most of her influence comes from her mother). Call it 'prude' but that's just how Clary, and most women in her society, are like. Besides, she's young (like 16 years old), so she's supposed to be innocent and pure. So for**_ _ **now, excluding their first kiss, the most contact she is willing to initiate or allow from Jace is hand-holding. (Her tackling Jace in the beginning was an out-of-character moment for her. Also, other moments when she unwittingly reached out for Jace**_ ** _—_** _ **in the Forbidden Forest, for instance**_ ** _—_** _ **can be attributed to nerves).**_

 ** _As for Jace, he too was raised in a conservative family so he can easily understand Clary's views about honor and refraining from physical intimacy during their courtship. Plus, underneath all that gladiator-hotness, Jace is a complete gentleman...agreed?_**

 _ **As far as naive, impressionable teenagers go, Clace will have their moments of slip-ups, but I like to think that they are the kind who are true to themselves and their moral principles, first. Plus, as Clary mentioned, I don't want their relationship to grow based on their physical desires for each other, but rather based on the depth of their emotions and the sacrifices they make for each other. That's far more important in the development of romance between them: the nurturing effect that they have on each other. This isn't Romeo & Juliet where it's 'love' based on blind passion.**_

 _ **2\. Clary's Past**_

 _ **So Clary, in general, is wary of men because of the abuse she's suffered at the hands of her father. There are very few men whom Clary would trust when it comes to touching her. a) Magnus, because he's her doctor. b) Simon, because he is the only other genuine friend she has apart from Izzy. c) Her brother, Jonathan, because he's the one who takes care of her the most. (There's something special about the relationship between the Morgenstern siblings, hence the reason why I love Jon. Selfless, protective brother? One in a million**_ ** _—Sorry, digressing here)._**

 _ **So, point I'm trying to make here is... Because of the**_ _ **bitter experiences inflicted by her father, Clary has been influenced into the**_ _ **mentality that if her own flesh and blood could hurt her, then why wouldn't a stranger? Granted, Jace is no longer a stranger, BUT he**_ **is** _ **very new to her, so it will take time for her to let him in completely**_ _ **. She's smart that way.**_

 ** _OK, I'm going to stop here. I'm sorry for long A/Ns. My old readers would understand how much I like injecting my thoughts and interpretations on my own story and how I play with the various_** ** _characterizations. Analyzing characters and situations are kind of just my thing._**

 _ **Until next time, peace xoxo**_


	11. Chapter 10: We Rise and We Fall

_**Reposting for those who might have missed the update I posted on Sunday. I'll try to get the next chapter up by this Friday or Saturday. In the meantime, please read and review!**_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note: Massive, emotional roller-coaster of a chapter ahead. Enjoy, my lovelies.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10: WE RISE AND WE FALL**

 **September 28, 508**

Clary brushed her fiery-red curls in front of her mirror furiously, a barely repressed smile etched onto her face as she hastily got ready for her nightly rendezvous with Jace. Straightening her tunic, she gave herself a final once-over and grinned to herself.

It had been a week since they had gotten together, and Clary had to admit, the thrill of pursuing this secret relationship with Jace was both scary and exciting for her. She had never done anything remotely rebellious before, and the thought of doing something that clearly went against her father's wishes made her insides tickle with humor and elation. After the incident with Sebastian, she hadn't had the displeasure of meeting any more suitors, so everything was actually going good for her so far.

She glanced at her clock again, grinning when she saw the time. It was half past nine. _Perfect._

Lately, it was all Clary could do to not run off to the stables to Jace each night the clock indicated it was eight. He had made it clear to her that she should only come down to meet him after he had had at least an hour and a half to himself to finish up his duties at the stables.

She remembered him telling her something along the lines of, "If you're here by the time I arrive, I'm not sure I would be able to get any of my duties done...and if that happens, they're going to get suspicious about my activities and start sending someone to supervise me. How would we have any time to ourselves then?"

So needless to say, Clary put up no arguments to his reasoning.

As she turned away from the mirror, Clary's heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she caught sight of her maid standing in the doorway to her room. Her arms were folded across her chest and she had a giant smirk plastered onto her face.

Clary placed her hand on her chest, where she could feel the accelerated rhythm of her heartbeat, then scowled at her maid.

"What in God's name—Izzy! You almost gave me a heart attack!" She shouted.

The raven-haired girl's smirk grew impossibly wider as she sauntered coolly into the room. "My, my, what do we have here, hmm, Clary? Sneaking off somewhere?" She said, amusement plain on her face as she fiddled with a strand of Clary's red hair.

Clary narrowed her eyes at her maid. "That's none of your business, Isabelle," she gritted out, enunciating every word within the sentence.

"What's got your stockings in a twist, _Princess Clarissa_?" Izzy jibed, her eyebrow raised at her mockingly. "What secrets are you hiding from me, _hmm_?"

Clary rolled her eyes at an attempt to throw her maid off her suspicions. "You're delusional, Iz. I'm just going horseback riding. No need for you to interrogate me like you're my father," she said as she tried to maneuver her way around her maid.

Of course, Isabelle wasn't one to make things easy for her. She quickly sidestepped and blocked Clary's path before she could make a run for it. "Horseback riding, eh? And who's this lovely, mysterious horseback rider who's been escorting you?" She paused, fingering her chin mischievously. "Or should I say _courting_ you?"

Clary's glare faltered for just a split second before she mustered a growl, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No?"

" _No_ ," Clary returned hotly, then regretted it almost instantly. If she had nothing to hide, then why was she getting all worked up and defensive for?

"Why are you getting all worked up and defensive for?" Isabelle asked as if hearing her thoughts.

Clary inhaled a deep breath and answered as calmly as she could, "I am not."

"But aren't you?"

Clary pursed her lips together and shook her head with an emphatic " _No_ " _._

"Oh, come on. You know better than to play coy with me, Clary," Isabelle grinned. "Don't think I haven't noticed… Since the night of your birthday—when you slipped into your room past your curfew, might I add—you've been having all these secret smiles to yourself. Your eyes have been shining like you're on cloud nine, and you've been acting like a giddy, lovesick teenager. Therefore, the only logical explanation I can conclude from this, is, you've been kissed! And now, you're seeing this _someone_ … He's forbidden, though, isn't he?" She waggled her eyebrows at her impishly.

Clary's mouth fell open in shock. She had been confident that no one had noticed her sneaking into her room after her late-night birthday celebration with Jace, but this whole time, Isabelle knew? Inwardly, she was having a meltdown. What was she supposed to say? Was it even a smart move to deny it? _No, no._ Isabelle would see right through her, she was sure! It wasn't only because the woman was one of her closest friends, but because of the fact that Clary was an awful liar. God, had she really been that obvious this entire time despite her attempts at hiding her secret relationship?

"Again, it's none of your business, Isabelle," Clary said with a slight tremor in her voice. "You made yourself clear the last time we spoke of this topic. I'm due to be married. So why would I be in a relationship with someone else? And more importantly, why would you care? You told me you wouldn't even support the idea—"

"I never said that," Isabelle said, sounding a little hurt.

"You didn't use those exact words but you implied it," Clary said, thinking of their conversation the morning of her first meeting with her suitors. Back then, she had tried to get her maid's advice on her situation with Jace—whom she only knew as Shadowhunter at the time—but Isabelle had basically told her that she should just forget about it. _"To defy the king is to sign a death wish,"_ had been her exact words.

Clary knew that Isabelle had only said it to convey that she cared for her, but she was still feeling a bit bitter about it all. She had always been supportive of Isabelle, so why couldn't she have been the same for her?

And _now_ , if Clary was reading into the situation correctly, Isabelle was contradicting herself by teasing her about her 'secret relationship'. It made her wonder, where exactly did her friend stand on the issue? Was she genuinely excited for her, or was she only pretending to be excited in order to get information out of her?

Clary gasped. What if Isabelle had lied about being her friend this entire time? What if she had been reporting back everything Clary had ever confided in her to her father? She had never seen reason to doubt her friend's trustworthiness, but she was definitely doubting it now. What else could plausibly explain her ambivalent attitude?

"I know what you're thinking," Izzy said, looking hurt. "And you're wrong, Clary. I do care about your happiness. Yes, I want you to do the smart thing by listening to your father, but I can't help being a hopeless romantic either," she looked at her sheepishly.

Clary gave her one of disbelief. Isabelle, a hopeless romantic? That was her excuse for her change of heart? Clary wanted to believe her, but her mind had been tainted with suspicion. A part of her was disgusted that she now thought so lowly of her friend, but what if she _was_ right? What if their entire friendship had been based on a duplicitous move on Isabelle's part, and that her friend had been betraying her this whole time?

She glanced at the time again, silently grieving for the precious minutes that had passed since Isabelle's interruption. Jace was waiting for her while she wasting time wondering about her handmaiden's motives and if she could be trusted.

So what if her friend suspected that she was harboring a secret lover? She finally decided. Her relationship with Jace belonged to her, not Isabelle. She wasn't accountable to her maid, and even if she were playing the part of a best friend sharing in her joy, Clary didn't owe it to her to explain anything. Her relationship was hers. Her decision on whether or not to share information about Jace was her choice—her right. Not Izzy's.

With her newfound resolve, Clary summoned her agility before bursting into action. She skirted around Isabelle and bumped her shoulder against hers, causing the latter to stumble. She faintly registered the raven-haired girl's yell of protest but made no effort to care as she bolted away from her room and towards the direction of the stables.

Isabelle could very well wait for her answers. Clary wasn't giving her any.

* * *

They were in the secret meadow again.

Clary sat across from Jace, her dainty, little fingers engrossed in making a flower crown while he watched her with a soft smile on his lips. At times, he felt a startling urge to enfold her into his arms and never let her go. It was only at her request that they maintained a respectable distance from each other—even though they were dating—that he held himself back from doing so. A part of him, the one that was greatly shaped by his own mother, agreed with her; he, too, didn't want their relationship to revolve around the mere physical aspects. After all, it was what she represented: her nurturing presence that he sought from her the most.

But it was for that very reason alone that Jace couldn't help the feeling of vulnerability that engulfed him every time he was with Clary. It was like a ceaseless shadow, following him around everywhere he went. Who would have guessed that the small, pixie-like princess could tame the mighty, almost-invincible gladiator? That she could have him wrapped around her tiny little finger and force him down onto his knees? Certainly not Jace.

Before Clary, he had never cared about other girls, never even paused to spare them a second glance. The only other girl he had ever kissed before Clary was a servant girl he had met in Renwick during one of his gladiator tours. He was only fifteen at the time, and had been curious about what it felt like to kiss. He had felt nothing—no sparks or fireworks unlike his first kiss with Clary on the night of her birthday. Since then, he knew that no other girl could ever hold a candle to his beautiful princess.

The first few days they were together had felt like a wonderful, surreal dream—at times, almost too good to be true. It was only after the third day that Jace had started to wonder when he would have to wake up from this dream and be unceremoniously dumped back into reality—the one where a relationship between a gladiator and a princess was an impossibility.

Since then, Jace began feeling conflicted and lost. He knew that he wanted—no, _needed_ to end Valentine. The animosity he felt for the fiend was propelled by more than just an unquenchable thirst for justice that had evaded him for eight long years. Valentine was far from a fit candidate to be king. He was the very manifestation of everything Stephen Herondale had detested: a despot who relished in the slaughter of slaves, whose sole purpose was to self-serve his ego, even at the expense of others. How many lives had suffered under the tyrant's rule, and would continue to suffer unless someone brave enough put an end to his wickedness?

But even with that knowledge in mind, Jace couldn't help but feel, quite selfishly, he admitted, that he needed Clary in his life so much more. It was an odd thought. A boy, who had spent the past near decade teaching himself to be independent, to never allow himself to rely on others, had all of a sudden _clung_ onto a girl as if his entire existence depended on her.

No matter how hard he tried to fight against his own personal urges, they kept drawing him back to her—to Clary. Always, _always,_ to Clary.

The time between their first meeting and now was only a short couple of weeks, but somehow even time seemed irrelevant in their case. Jace didn't know how it could be possible, but in the time that he had spent knowing Clary, she had healed him—of old wounds and new. Despite knowing nothing of his past, she had helped him to forget the pain of his losses and extinguished the loneliness in his life. All of the impossible became _possible_ just as long as she was there in his presence, whether she elected to fill their time with softly spoken words or a companionable silence like she was doing now.

Could it be…that _Clary_ was the beacon of light he had been searching for his whole life?

As soon as the thought entered his mind, Jace felt the stirrings of soberness wash over him. He was falling for her too fast—he knew it, and it scared him. What if his feelings for her weren't reciprocated? Was it the same for her as it was for him? Did she need him like he needed her? What would happen to her—to _them_ —if her father told her that he had found her another suitor for her to marry?

Jace was neither stupid nor naïve. He knew that whatever he and Clary had now wouldn't last forever. Even _Clary_ knew this. She had told him that despite having yet to find herself an actual husband, Valentine had already announced her wedding date: specifically, the day after the final games this year. But that was it. That was as far as their conversations had gone regarding her arranged marriage. They hadn't discussed how it would affect their relationship, which irked Jace deeply. Why was Clary pretending that their relationship was easier than it actually was? Didn't she want him to do something about it, to save her from marrying someone else? Or was he just a momentary distraction, a chance for her to spite her father?

When the time came, would she break things off with him and force him to accept the painful fact that she would be married to another man and have a family with him? If that happened, he wouldn't exactly have a choice now, would he? But would he be strong enough to let it happen, to watch on the sidelines as the only girl he ever wanted to be with belonged to someone else—someone apparently more deserving than he was because of his social status?

Jace had been so deep in his musings, he didn't even realize that Clary had been trying to get his attention for the last two minutes.

He snapped out of his thoughts when Clary leaned forward towards him and lightly patted his shin. "Jace?" She looked at him worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Hmm," was his only response, followed by a scoff directed at himself.

"I'm fine, Clary," he reassured her upon meeting her gaze.

From the way her emerald green eyes continued to search his face inquisitively, he knew that she didn't buy it. Still, he prayed that she wouldn't press the matter.

"That looks beautiful, Princess," he remarked at her flower crown.

Clary looked down at the object in question and gave him a sly smirk. "It's not the first flower crown I've made since we visited this meadow, Jace. You're going to have to work harder than that if you're trying to distract me," she told him, a-matter-of-factly.

Jace forced a chuckle out of himself. "Who says I was trying to distract you?" He asked her.

Clary tilted her head to the side as if she were assessing him. "Your tongue may deceive me, but your eyes do not." Jace lowered his gaze from hers with a dejected sigh.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Clary reach out a hand towards him, then hesitate when it was inches away from his face. Jace closed his eyes, waiting—waiting for her fingers to brush his cheek, _anything_ , but not to his surprise, Clary didn't touch him.

 _Curious_ , he thought, not for the first time. Save for the occasional exchange of some simple, innocent touches—and the night when she had tended to him in the cells being the biggest exception—Clary was, on all counts, reserved when it came to touching him. At first, he had thought that it was due to her conservative nature, which he respected, but then he began to suspect that it was more than just that…as if she was afraid of touching him and to be on the receiving end of his touch. He tried not to take it personally, but how was he to tell his heart to stop interpreting her reluctance as a subtle form of rejection? Had he not earned her trust? Or could it be, in spite of her warm feelings towards him, some part of her still regarded him as a deadly threat, who saw him as a _murderer_?

"It's nothing personal against you, Jace," she said, as if reading his mind. "The fact that you're a gladiator does not concern me…at least, not in the way that you're thinking." He looked up at her, surprised by how attuned she seemed to be with his thoughts, as guarded as he was.

"Then what is it?" Jace probed. "You were…fine with touching me before." Here, he felt like kicking himself in the gut, realizing too late how his words could easily be taken with offense. Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why have you withdrawn yourself from me?"

"I have not _withdrawn_ myself," Clary answered with a slight frown on her face. "Back when I was taking care of you," she said, referring to the events after the whipping incident, "I touched you because I had to." Jace couldn't help but flinch at her implied meaning, the hint that _he_ shouldn't take offense to her behavior when she had acted under near-strict professionalism when caring for him. Again, he agreed to an extent—but still. "Otherwise, I don't make it a habit to touch others unnecessarily," she added.

Jace raised his brow at her then, recalling the other instances when she had made a rather open display of affection towards her brother _and_ Simon. In that regard, why was he an exception?

He must have been projecting his envy rather clearly because Clary suddenly rolled her eyes at him. "Jonathan is my brother. He is of my blood and a constant source of affection in my life, so of course, I am unreserved when it comes to touching him," she explained in a weary tone. "As for Simon… It took me years before I even allowed myself to hug him. At any rate, he's earned my trust because I see him as a second brother to me."

"And me?"

Clary paused as her eyes met his. "You know what you are to me," she said, holding his gaze. "I care about you in a way that I have never cared about another man before…"

Jace frowned. "But?"

"I have my reservations—you _know_ that," she said in a firm tone that belied her youth. "Besides, you can't possibly expect me to touch you all the time just because you're courting me, Jace. You don't have the right to ask that of me."

"I already know that, Clary," Jace replied, rather gruffly.

"Then why are you asking me this?"

Jace paused. Indeed, why _was_ he calling her out on something he had no right to question? Clary wasn't his wife—she wasn't answerable to him. And besides, hadn't he already established that he respected her and honored her? What, then, was the point to his enquiry?

"You misunderstand my intentions. I am not questioning your morals—and I most certainly am not demanding you to touch me," he clarified. "I am asking because I can't help but feel that you're…fearful of me sometimes, and I want to understand _why_. Why are you afraid of me? I am not going to hurt you, Clary," Jace told her earnestly.

"This isn't about you," Clary's response was no more than a whisper. She glanced at him, her eyes slightly watery, and choked back her emotions.

She was lying. _Of course_ she was lying. Truthfully, it was him, but not quite entirely _about him_. To a larger extent, it was a fear that had stemmed from her father's all too quick and eager hand. If a man who had sired her didn't hesitate to punish her when she displeased him, why not a stranger? The other men who had come knocking on her doorstep with hopes of betrothing her hadn't helped to ease her fears any. They had eager hands, too, she recalled. Hands that were all too keen to claim her as if she were a negotiable piece of property, easily won over by flattery.

Deep inside, she knew that Jace was different from all those men, including her father. But her fear persisted, only because it had existed inside of her for so long. And also, she realized, because her better judgment knew that her relationship with Jace wouldn't last. If she allowed herself even the smallest amount of physical intimacy with him, she risked getting herself emotionally _attached_ to him as well—and that was the danger point. As a person who had always been so sensitive, she understood how difficult it could be if emotional ties were suddenly severed. She kept her distance from Jace, because it was safer to. Her body, but most of all, her heart counted on her to keep it protected.

 _This is for my own good,_ she reminded herself.

Then, amidst the muddle in her brain, another concerning thought occurred to her: Isabelle's suspicions about her secret relationship. Exactly how much did her handmaiden know?

But she was momentarily diverted from addressing the situation when Jace cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry I pushed you," he said, his cheeks slightly flushed with shame. "It was hardly courteous of me to turn the tables on you when you were only asking me if I was all right. Please, just… Forget I ever asked, will you?"

Clary nodded slowly. Then, as if deciding that she deserved a little bit more than that from him, she decided to ask again, "Are you sure that you're all right, Jace?"

There was an unspoken plea in there as well: _Please, tell me what's wrong._

The gladiator sighed. Truthfully, with each passing day, it was getting harder and harder to say no to Clary. The guilt of keeping his real identity and his past a secret from her was beginning to eat him up alive…to the point where he felt that he just couldn't avoid it anymore.

Jace ran through the options in his head. The least he could do at this point was to be truthful with her, right? Even if he couldn't tell her everything, he could tell her _part_ of it. It was better than nothing; and perhaps, if he humored her with some facts about himself, _she_ would be willing to do the same and tell him what was bothering _her_.

Jace swallowed, the movement causing his Adam's apple to bob slowly. "I was just thinking about when we were going to wake up from this dream, and when you would have to leave me and marry someone else. I hate to admit it but I—I'm a little _sca_ —I don't want it to end…" He trailed off in a quiet voice before masking his face to look emotionless.

"Me too," Clary replied before burying her face into her hands.

As silence wrapped itself around them, the young princess let out an involuntary shudder. His words had hit far too close to home!

 _Oh, only God knows how much I don't want to leave him…_ She mourned.

But in a few months' time, she would have to. No amount of pretending or rebelling against her father would suddenly allow her to have the option of getting out of her arranged marriage. And to pretend that her relationship with Jace could survive this was akin to deceiving themselves. The longer she allowed it to go on, the more she was only sparing them false hope, prolonging the inevitable end. Isabelle was already suspicious; it wouldn't take long for her to find out that she was seeing Jace. And if they kept this up, her father would find out, too.

In their situation, it wasn't just mere feelings that were on the line. It was life and death. Jace had already laid his life at risk for her once. She couldn't bear the thought of it happening a second time because of her.

"Jace, maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore," she whispered brokenly, causing Jace's eyes to widen fractionally in surprise.

He stared back at her in disbelief as she looked down at her own hands, biting her lip violently as if in an attempt to control herself from crying. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as his mind processed all of one thought— _What is she saying?_

First, she had admitted to him that she didn't their relationship to end, but now she was saying that they shouldn't see each other anymore? But _why_?

Had he pushed her too far by asking her all of those impertinent questions about her reluctance to touch him? Oh, what a fool he had been! He chastised himself, when another possible explanation crossed his mind: could it be that, despite their relationship, _his_ reluctance to impart anything real about himself had her believing that he wasn't worth her time or attention anymore? With so little to go on about him, he was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to her. Why should she waste her time devoting herself to a stranger?

All of a sudden, cold fear gripped Jace. It wasn't so much of the fear of having his identity found out by Clary as it was the fear of her leaving him. Of losing her.

"Clary, please… Please listen to me. You h-have to un-understand some-thing," Jace _stammered_ —and he hardly ever stammered. "I… Before I met you…I was just an empty gladiator. I had… _no one_. The only thing I sought in my pathetic existence was to fight in order to earn my freedom. But only so that I could kill my parents' murderer and take my revenge," he admitted, watching as her eyes widened in shock at his bluntness.

"I know how that must sound to you, and I don't blame you one bit for judging me. I'm a _heartless_ killer—it's all I've ever known for the past eight years." He paused, looking at her straight in the eye, searching for signs of her disgust towards him. Instead, all he found was encouragement in her green eyes, imploring him to believe that he could trust her with whatever secrets, telling him that she saw him as no less, that she would accept him.

It was then that it hit him: he hadn't opened up to _anybody_ since his parents' deaths. And in his stoic rage and self-pity, he had never actually allowed himself the chance to properly grieve for his parents either. It had been far too long, and he realized, he didn't have the sense or will to bottle up everything inside of him anymore. Underneath the facade of a strong and seemingly fearless gladiator, he was a _man_. A man who was so tired of trying to keep it together all the time.

"…But I'll have you know this. I was only ten when I had my entire life robbed from me. I had to listen to my father's screams as he was killed… I had to watch with my own eyes as my mother was raped… I felt her blood stain my face when _he_ slaughtered her," he choked, tears unknowingly slipping from his eyes—tears he hadn't been able to cry in eight years. "And I've had to live with guilt of having done _nothing_ to save them. I was a weakling! A stupid, pathetic little coward! I was so _useless_ —" His voice cracked as he cried out of his own self-loathing, but he didn't stop. "God, I know—I know I don't deserve you, Clary, but I can't stand it if you, too, were to leave me, too—"

Clary couldn't bear to listen to him any longer. In spite of her own qualms, she pulled him towards her, letting him bury his face into her neck as his body was racked with painful sobs.

 _God!_ She cried to herself as threaded her fingers through his soft, fair curls. Tears slipped past her cheeks as she felt Jace's pain course through his chest and radiate from his very being into hers. _Who could ever hurt this poor, broken boy?_

Then, reasoning with her conscience's appeal to let go of Jace and to set their boundaries straight, once and for all, her inner voice wept: _I know I shouldn't do this. I know. But I feel like I'll fall apart if I let him go. His pain hurts me. And I… I need him too._

"Shh, shh, Jace, it's okay. I'm here now, and I'm never going to let you go. _I love you._ I'm never going to leave you, I promise," she said, her own tears sliding over her cheeks.

 _God, please,_ she silently entreated, _help me._

All of a sudden, Clary felt the gladiator stiffen in her arms.

Hesitantly, she pulled away, thinking that she had misread into the situation and that Jace didn't actually want her to comfort him. But her embarrassed apologies died from her lips the moment his warm, callused hands cupped her cheeks.

"You love me?" He asked her softly, his voice sounding thick and raw with emotion. His face was red from crying and her heart broke at how vulnerable he looked.

But at the same time, she was startled by his question.

 _You love me?_

In the midst of her own emotional turmoil, Clary hadn't realized that she had actually bared her heart to the man who, only moments ago, she had wanted to leave for both their sakes. Therefore, her confession, in all manner of impulsiveness that betrayed her youth, was purely incidental.

Clary shuddered. Was that truly how she felt about him? Was it possible that she _did_ love him?

The thought sent her heart racing, just as a skeptical voice in her head screamed: _But you've only known him for less than a month!_

 _So what?_ Her subconscious retorted. _Does love need to be quantified by time? So what if I do love him? It's my heart—my choice._

Clary met Jace's gaze, the one that pleaded with her for an honest answer. His golden eyes shimmered, with longing, hope and… Was that _love_ , too, reflected in his eyes—for her?

She remembered the day at Dumont—with Sebastian—when Jace had taken that brutal whiplashing for her. He had protected her. He had almost given his life up for her when they hadn't been anything more than acquaintances to each other then. He had shown her what it meant to be selfless, and she had fallen in love with him for it. He was one of the very few people in her life who showed her that he truly, genuinely cared for her, who made her feel that she was worth something, and not because of the fact that she was a princess—she didn't have to pretend to be anything other than herself when she was around him.

So yes, Clary loved Jace for it.

Her self-admission instantly sent the warning bells ringing inside her head, but this time, she felt strongly compelled to silence the noise. The truth of the matter was, there was no point in denying what she felt for Jace. As careful as she had been around him, it didn't stop her from forming a deep emotional attachment to him. Pushing him away from her now would only prove to be counterproductive, and frankly, a waste of time neither of them had the luxury of.

"Yes," Clary answered with a certain and unwavering voice. Her heart, which only moments ago had felt weighed down by an invisible mass, grew significantly lighter, its beat steadier, stronger, and more resolved. She smiled, deciding that the best course of action was, in fact, to obey her heart. "I love you, Jace. I've loved you for a while now."

Jace smiled at her, the kind that made his eyes crinkle, as tears spilled over his cheeks again. "I love you, too, Clary. I love you _so much_ ," he confessed, sighing as if a huge burden had been eased off of his chest.

Before either of them could comprehend the magnitude of the words they had said to each other, their lips met in a gentle _kiss_ —for the first time since the night of her birthday—silently communicating their mutual need to express that love in a way that words couldn't. It was chaste and sweet, a pure reflection of what they were, of what their love was.

In some ways, it was almost as if they were two children instead of young adults. For what atrocities they had both seen and experienced, they were still, astonishingly, full of innocence where their feelings for each other were concerned, their need for touch borne out of a need for assurance and comfort, much like children who sought touch from their parents to know that they were loved. Yet, they acknowledged, it wasn't quite the same either. Their love was one of romance, where they saw each other as partners, soulmates even.

When they broke apart, Jace breathed, "I love you."

Clary palmed his cheek gently, before whispering back to him, "I love you, too."

The grins that stretched across their faces were wide and infectious, and they both burst into a fit of laughter before finally managing to calm themselves down. Stretching their bodies out across the grassy surface, identical blushes of shyness coating their cheeks, they kept their hands clasped together in between them, relishing in the peace surrounding them.

Right there in that moment, it was almost hard to believe that they had nearly come close to ending their relationship when in truth, it had barely even begun.

Just then, Clary moved, angling her head just right to meet the gladiator's gaze. Jace turned to look at her, and was taken aback by the stern look she gave him.

"Listen to me, Jace. I don't want you blaming yourself for what happened all those years ago, understand? It wasn't your fault. Regardless of what you think, you were just a little boy. You shouldn't have had to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, Jace. Even now, you shouldn't have to," she told him as she lovingly rubbed her thumb across the back of his hand.

Jace's throat tightened and he swore that his eyes pricked with tears. It wasn't just grief, he felt, but also awe for the young woman who had blessedly chosen to reciprocate his feelings, who loved him in return.

 _No, no more crying, Herondale,_ he chastised himself. He knew that it was foolish of him, but he had never wanted to tell Clary about his past because he was sure that it would be the one thing that would cause her to break things off with him and tell him that he wasn't good enough for her. After all, who could ever love a man with a damaged past like his?

But as Jace was learning, Clary always tended to do the opposite of what he usually expected of her—like now. How fortunate was he, despite it all…

Clary looked at him worriedly, but instead of replying, Jace only managed a small nod before they resumed their stargazing.

 _Clary's right. It's not my fault. I wasn't the one who wielded the blade that ended my parents' lives. It was Valentine. Not me._

He almost chuckled aloud at his own thoughts. To think that it took this long for him to come to that conclusion—and all because of Clary—was almost comical. He closed his eyes, swaddled with feelings of relief and…serenity. If he had his way, he would never want to move again. Out there in their meadow, encompassed by each other's warm presence, he was grateful that their feelings were now out in the open…that the love they felt for each other was mutual.

 _Love_. A smile ghosted his lips at the very word. After everything he had gone through, Jace didn't think that he could still be capable of something as pure and giving as love. Infatuation perhaps, but _love_? The idea seemed almost preposterous.

It wasn't until Clary had told him that she loved him that he realized that he had been in love with her this whole time, too—well, maybe he hadn't loved her from the _very_ beginning, but he would be lying if he said that he hadn't felt a strong connection to her from the moment they had met. Something about her had sparked not only his attention, but his curiosity as well. He couldn't help but _want_ to know her. Her existence, as far as he was concerned, was an enigma. How could anyone whose father was a cruel and heartless murderer turn out to be so… _good_?

So naturally, like a moth drawn to a flame, he was enamored by her. She never left his mind, no matter how hard he tried to forget her, to put a safe distance between them. The turning point, Jace realized, when he started to truly fall for her, was on the night of the whiplashing incident.

When he had lain in a pool of his own blood, unmistakably the closest he had ever been to death, she had come for him, a miracle cloaked in the night. Unlike most girls he assumed, she hadn't turned away from him at the sight of his blood. Instead, she had put on a brave face for him and stayed. She stayed long enough to take care of him, to clean him of his blood, to feed him, and—to his embarrassment—stayed with him until he fell asleep when he asked her to.

And astoundingly, in the nights that followed, she came back. _That_ , in itself, was baffling to him. She had other options she could have considered—she could have chosen not to care for him; she could have chosen to walk away from him and pretend that he didn't exist; she could have chosen to give her affections to a prince or a king. But instead, she chose _him_.

What was there not to love about a girl who, despite being a princess and despite having a monstrous father, could see the beauty in him that no one else, save for his parents, had ever cared enough to see? She made him feel like he was worth something, something more than just a skilled gladiator and a prowess in the arena.

She made him feel like a _real_ person. Like he was…Jace. Just Jace. Not the broken boy with a broken past. Not an orphaned prince turned gladiator. Not even Shadowhunter—despite how much pride and honor that name gave him, he was relieved that she no longer had to call him that.

"Jace?"

He squeezed her hand in response. "Hm?"

When she didn't reply, Jace turned to look at her, his serene disposition momentarily fading at the distressed look in her eyes.

"What is it, Clary?" He asked her warily. For a moment, he worried that she would take go back on her word and they would be back to where they were before he told her of his past.

"It's not what you're thinking about, Jace. I'm not leaving you," she reassured him. "But I wanted to ask…" Their eyes locked once again, and Clary bit her lip. "The man who killed your parents…is he here, in Idris?" She asked.

Jace looked away, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. It wasn't only because her question was direct, but because the answer to her question was a complete irony!

 _Yes,_ Jace thought. _He's here. You live with him. You know him._ His thoughts came to a pause and he held his breath, just barely able to keep the words in his head. _He's your father, Clary._

When his silence persisted, Clary sat up and looked at him expectantly. Jace pointedly avoided her gaze but eventually cave in under her pressurizing look, and gave her the subtlest of nods.

She let out a disbelieved gasp. "Do I know him?" She asked.

Again, albeit hesitantly, Jace nodded.

Clary's eyes burned with rage. "Who is it, Jace? Tell me who it was that destroyed your life, who turned you into a slave. _Tell me._ "

This time, however, Jace shook his head, wordlessly telling her that it was not open for discussion. How could he possibly tell the girl he loved that her father was the one responsible for his pain—who had made him into what he was?

Although the disappointment was apparent in her eyes, Clary decided to concede to his wishes. But on the inside, she was absolutely fuming—not at Jace, but the _person_ who had ruined his life. Who could ever do such a thing—and to her Jace, of all people? Who could have made an innocent, young boy watch as he cruelly violated his mother and murdered her?

If only he would tell her who it was… Clary would most definitely give that poor excuse of a human a piece of her mind!

"Enough, Clary," Jace's gentle voice stole her away from her thoughts. His eyes appeared slightly guarded, but there was no mistaking the love and affection they held—for her. "Don't dwell on it too much. You're going to give yourself a headache."

Knowing it was best not argue with him, Clary relented, closing her eyes and exhaling a heavy sigh. "I'm just so angry," she confessed to him.

Jace chuckled. It was mirthless, but not in a bitter-sounding way. "So am I. Hell, I've been angry and a lot of other things for _years_ ," he said. "But I don't want to be angry when I'm with you. I want to be happy." It was a simple statement, but filled with so much truth.

Clary smiled. "You know, I haven't felt this loved by anyone in a long time," she told him with a sheepish smile.

" _I_ haven't loved anyone in a long time," Jace admitted. "And as far as women are concerned, you're my first."

For some reason, those words made her grin like a lunatic. "I'm your first love?"

"Mm-hmm," he hummed dreamily. "Just like I'm yours."

"Don't be so quick to assume."

"You know I'm right," he said. "And I'm glad too, Clary. I'm glad you chose me. It must mean that I'm doing something right," he teased.

Clary blushed. In a soft voice she told him, "I've never had anyone to love me for me—besides Jon, of course. But only because he's that—my brother. He has to love me."

"We all deserve to have someone to love us. Even if it's just your brother, you should be grateful that you have someone who's there for you," he said, meaning every word.

Clary nodded and held his gaze firmly. "I know. And…" Her eyes clouded with tears as she suddenly choked. Since Jace's confession about his past, she had been itching to tell him of her own secret, too. She only narrowly avoided mentioning it earlier, but guilt quickly found her as she realized how unfair she was being. Relationships were about give _and_ take, not give or take.

"I…I know how you feel, _about having to lose the people you loved the most_." Clary cleared her throat, blinking furiously to rid her eyes of her tears. Belatedly, she wondered when she was ever going to be able to stop crying—it was so incredibly exhausting to cry all the time. "I lost my mom three years ago," she told him.

Jace's expression instantly morphed from worry into shock.

"I know that look," she chuckled softly. "I don't blame you. I never intended to tell you about this. But I thought I owed it to you since you told me about your parents. You see…my mom's death isn't something I've been able to talk to anyone about, not even to Jonathan." She gulped slowly, an attempt to rein in her grief.

"Losing her was one of the most painful things I've ever been through in my life. She was the closest person to me. She taught me everything I know. When she was _m-murdered_ …" Jace held her hand tightly, his golden eyes shining with empathy and understanding. "When she was murdered, she left me with my _father_ ," she spat. "And for a while, I just hated her. I resented her for leaving me alone with _him._ He never cared about me, Jace. He never asked me how I was doing, how I was coping, _if I was even coping_. He didn't even cry at my mother's funeral. It didn't even take him a week before he went back to servicing his mistresses and then…then he just went about his business as usual, planning his stupid games instead of wondering if Jon and I were all right."

"Did you ever find out who killed your mother?" Jace asked.

"No," Clary shook her head. "Father never even bothered for an investigation. He thought it was a waste of time. He told Jon and I that we needed to move on and even if we managed to catch the murderer, it wouldn't bring our mother back. Jon and I begged for him to _try_ —Jon was close to my mom, too—but it only ended up in Father beating us and telling us that the sooner we get over our mother's death, the better things will be for us," she said spitefully.

Jace bit back his anger at Clary's revelation of her father's abuse. Murdering his parents was one thing, but to deliberately hurt his own children—his own flesh and blood? Did he have no _heart_?

He thought back to Clary's confession; there were so many things he had never expected to learn about the Morgensterns. One, Clary's mother—like his—had been murdered. Two, Valentine didn't care enough to mourn over the death of his queen. Three, Valentine was an adulterer—Jace already knew this when the monster decided to rape his mother…which led to his conclusion of what he already believed about the man: Valentine didn't deserve to have a family—not Clary, not Jonathan, and not even his dead wife.

"Do you hate him, Clary?" Jace asked, unable to resist himself.

Clary pondered over his question for a long time, her stress evident in the tiny creases that sat between her eyebrows. "I…As much as I wanted— _want_ to hate him, I don't think I can." Her eyes looked at him pleadingly, as if begging him to understand her. "He's my _father_ , Jace. He's my flesh and blood, and I can't just—" She groaned, putting her face in her hands. "I can't just hate him. I have to believe that somehow his _good_ will outweigh all the bad that he's done." Her voice came out muffled behind her tiny hands.

Jace nodded, despite Clary not being able to see his response. Regardless of her protests, he could tell that even she had a hard time believing her own words—not that he blamed her one bit. Still, he was curious to know what Clary meant by Valentine's 'good'—was the demon even capable of any human warmth? Had he ever even shown Clary any ounce of compassion, of love, or of understanding as a father should?

From the look on Clary's face, Jace could tell that the answer to all of that was _no_. Still, he found it admirable that she even bothered trying to defend her father and to make up excuses on his behalf. If their roles were reversed and Jace had Valentine as his father, he wouldn't even bat an eyelash to retaliate against the man and to call him out on his severely lacking sense of morality. As much as he held filial piety on a high pedestal, he knew there had to be boundaries. Did a parent who remorselessly beat his own children deserve their love and respect? Of course not. But Clary was… _Clary_. She was too good, even for her own good. Her father's abuse had not swayed her from being loyal to him.

And knowing this, knowing that Clary was still holding on to that small shred of hope that she could salvage something out of her estranged relationship with her father, Jace knew that he couldn't tell her who he really was—that his parents were the Herondales. To an outsider, the fact probably wouldn't have mattered as much, but with Clary _Morgenstern_ , it would. Their exchange in the market, on the day they first met, was enough proof in itself that Clary would trust and vouch for her father's words.

Yes, she loved _him_ , but what good would his claims be against her father? What worth would he hold to her eyes if he were to be revealed as a Herondale?

"Sometimes I wish I could just go back in time to when things weren't so crazy," Clary said wistfully.

Jace interlocked his fingers with hers again. "Don't we all?" He smiled at her sadly.

Clary closed her eyes and sighed softly. "I really miss my mom…and Luke," she said.

The unfamiliar name sent a pang of jealousy through Jace, and he gently nudged her in the side, trying to get her attention.

Clary frowned at him at first, then slowly, her lips spread into a full-blown grin. "Why do you look like you've just swallowed a lemon?" She asked him in between a fit of giggles.

Jace did not find her amusement amusing at all.

" _Luke_ ," he sneered. "Who is he? Is he an old childhood _sweetheart_?" He asked, his tone laced with sarcasm and jealousy.

Clary's eyes widened at his false accusation and she slapped his chest lightly. "EW, NO! Luke's my godfather!" She exclaimed, giggling profusely.

Jace's face flushed in embarrassment, causing Clary to laugh harder at him. "Okay, okay. Will you please just stop laughing at me?" He gritted out, his cheeks still tinged with pink.

"Aww…Little Jacey is so cute when he's all jealous and blushing," she said in a mocking tone.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Enough teasing," he said grouchily. "Tell me about Luke, then. What happened to him?" He asked, hoping to steer the attention away from his moment of petty jealousy.

Clary's giggles dissipated almost instantly, and a deep frown made its way onto her face. "I don't really know what happened to Luke," she said sadly. "The night my mom died, Father said that he left Idris to move to someplace else permanently. He was my mom's best friend so I guess her loss was hard on him that he decided to leave."

She sighed. "I wish he hadn't though. Luke was like a second father to me. He was everything Father wasn't—he was sweet, funny and caring. He always used to get me presents and treats, and he would even read to me at night. Him leaving was a second blow to me. My mom left me, and then he left me, too. It just made me feel so abandoned and lost. He didn't even come to her funeral, and he didn't even say goodbye to me," she said, another tear escaping her eye. "I still miss him, though. Maybe if my father had loved me like Luke or my mom did, I wouldn't miss any of them this badly."

Jace didn't say anything; he only continued to hold Clary's hand tightly. Before tonight, he never would have guessed that she had been through that much, and he felt guilty for ever having thought that she was a spoilt brat at times. She had been through as much hardship as he had—even if their situations were different. Maybe that was why they both made sense together, why they were so drawn to each other—because they hadn't had the easiest of lives.

"I love you," Jace whispered, more to himself than to Clary.

"Oh, no—not again," Clary muttered as she suddenly sat up with a panicked expression on her face.

"What?" Jace asked her, confused.

"We have to get back before my curfew, remember?" She said, getting to her feet.

Sighing loudly, Jace reluctantly got up and followed her lead. And for the seventh night in a row, he cursed the time for rolling by too quickly.

* * *

The whole ride back, Jace couldn't help but feel a deep sense of uneasiness. It throbbed in his chest and prickled his heart like an incurable itch—he didn't know why.

Back in the meadow, when they had made their confessions, he had thought that a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Clary knew about his past—or a certain degree of it—and she hadn't shunned him. In fact, she had told him that she loved him. It was a miracle he never thought he would be fortunate enough to receive.

But now…all those feelings of relief and happiness had drained away, leaving him grappling with inexplicable anxiety. There wasn't anything unusual about the night, but he couldn't shake his mind off of his foreboding premonition.

Somewhere just beneath the surface of his own skin, his conscience was assured that something terrible was going to happen. The only problem was that the question of _what_ remained an elusive mystery.

As they entered the stables, Jace tried to dismiss his unpleasant suspicions. The act, however, proved to be a greater task than he thought possible, as he could literally feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing. That was never a good sign, he thought, his hands shaking slightly.

Luckily, Clary didn't seem to notice that anything was off with him, and she even gave him a wide smile after he had helped her down from her horse.

"Hurry up with the horses, will you?" She told him in a mock demanding tone.

Normally, such remarks from his feisty princess would have made him smirk and come up with a quick riposte, but this time, Jace could only muster a half-hearted smile.

"Bossy," he finally said, a slight tremor in his voice.

He cleared his throat as he led Wayfarer and The Countess into their stalls, giving the stables a covert once-over when Clary's back was turned. There was no one around, as usual, but why did he feel as though he was being watched?

 _Stop being so paranoid, Herondale. You're losing your mind over nothing. Honestly, do you see anyone?_ He chided himself. Still, the self-reprimand didn't stop him from glancing around the stables a second time, his mind distracted by his own nagging, insecure thoughts.

It was also the reason why he nearly jumped an entire foot into the air when Clary suddenly spoke up from behind him.

"What are you looking at?"

"Geez, Clary! Don't do that," he scolded her as he turned around to face her.

She was beaming at him and didn't look sorry in the least. "Sorry. I forgot how jumpy my dearest beloved can be," she replied smugly.

That finally dragged a genuine smile out of Jace. "Ha-ha. Very funny, Clarissa," he chuckled with a roll of his eyes. "You better get going soon, my princess," he told her after a while. "My master will be here soon—and I don't fancy answering his questions about you if he sees us together."

Clary let out a forlorn sigh. "I hate this…sneaking around just so that we can see each other," she muttered. "It shouldn't have to be like this. I hate feeling dishonest."

"I know," Jace replied. "I want more than anything to be able to court you properly. Maybe, one day, we can live without all this secrecy…" He reached for her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. Clary returned the gesture and gave him a sad smile.

"I love you, Jace," she said. "You _are_ a prince in my eyes… I want you to remember that."

Her unexpected words struck a chord within Jace as he realized just how accurate—or _almost_ accurate her statement was. He _was_ a prince—just not anymore. But a prince in _her eyes_? It was the highest compliment he could ever hope to receive from the one person who mattered so much to him.

"Please, Clary. One kiss?" He whispered, his golden eyes seeking hers for permission.

Her breath hitched as her eyes glazed over with conflict. But eventually, she gave in. _One kiss_ , her heart whispered. _Just one._

"Just one," she repeated aloud, closing the distance between them.

And then their lips met, a gentle, feather-like caress filled with so much tender affection and love as two young, unguarded souls could muster. Sweet words passed between them as their kiss remained—until a loud, deliberate coughing intruded on them.

Their reactions were both instantaneous and identical. Jace and Clary sprung apart from each other, looking as if an entire bucket of cold water had been dumped onto them. Their eyes found each other first—both mirroring fear and shock—then they averted their attention to the source of their interruption: the tall, willowy frame of Clary's maid.

Clary was the first one to react. "Izzy, what are you doing here?" She demanded in an almost shrill voice. She briefly caught Jace's eye again, seeing the same worry in his bright aureate ones. They had been caught red-handed—by her maid, but another person nonetheless. And if Clary's earlier suspicions about Isabelle were true…then she would be the one to deliver them to their executioner, to her FATHER.

Isabelle looked triumphant as she sauntered towards them. "Honestly, Clary, did you think I was going to just sit by idly when you almost knocked me over in your haste to meet your lover? Don't deny it," she raised her eyebrow when Clary tried to protest, "If he isn't your lover, then why were you _kissing_ him?" She shot them a smug look.

On the other side of the stables, Jace remained silent as he scrutinized Clary's maid. _The black hair…the dark brown, almost-black eyes…the stubborn chin…_ They all looked familiar, as if he had seen them on another face from his past. He just couldn't seem to put his finger on her though—and that frustrated him. The first time they met in the market, none of those features in particular had called out to him, but then again, he hadn't been paying close attention to Clary's maid then. And Clary had called her 'Izzy'…who did he know called herself _Izzy_?

"Okay, so you were right. Now can you please just keep this to yourself and leave us alone?" Clary snapped as she rubbed her temples in irritation.

"Not until you tell me his _name_ ," Izzy replied in a singsong voice.

Jace's already racing heartbeat sped up when the maid marched up to him. They were standing so close now, less than a foot apart. Clary quickly moved to his side, and uncharacteristically enough, slipped her hand into his and squeezed it possessively. However, Jace barely noticed her. His eyes were intent on the maid's, studying her as _she_ studied _him_.

"Not bad, Clary," she finally said. "If he wasn't yours, I would probably—"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence, Isabelle Sophia Lightwood," Clary cut in sharply.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Jace's mouth as his golden eyes widened in surprise. _LIGHTWOOD? She's Alec's little sister?_ His mind screamed frantically, and Jace knew it then and there, how stupid he was for not realizing it any sooner.

He was in deep trouble. What was with all the people from his past suddenly sprouting up out of nowhere and terrorizing his relationship with Clary?

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "No need for you to go all possessive on him, Clary. I was only joking. Besides, I prefer men with dark hair, remember?" She said whilst examining her perfectly manicured fingernails.

"Good," Clary nodded, still scowling like a furious vixen. "In that case, why don't you run along and find yourself a man with dark hair, _now_? I'm sure Simon would be more than happy to take you out on a date. He's been pining for you for years."

"Such impudence you have there, my good lady," Isabelle chuckled. "And I promise to leave you alone…once I know _his_ name." She turned her gaze on Jace and narrowed her eyes, scanning him deeply, thoroughly.

Jace finally had enough. "My name is of no business of yours—and we don't owe you any explanations," he clipped in an icy tone, hoping it would intimidate the black-haired girl.

But Isabelle didn't waver one bit. She was exactly as he remembered to be when they were growing up as children: bossy, demanding, and would never allow anyone to push her around. Jace remembered distinctly a time when he and Alec had derided her and told her that she couldn't train with either of them. He had suffered greatly for his mistake—at the hands of an offended and vengeful Isabelle Lightwood.

Now here she was standing in front of him, perusing him like he was a book—an ironic simile to use here, of course, since Izzy hated reading books with a passion, Jace recalled. He glared daggers at her, and regretfully, recognition flashed in her brown eyes.

"Jace?" Isabelle's mouth fell open in surprise.

A rapid stream of curses raced through Jace's mind as Clary gripped his hand furiously.

"How do you know his name?" She demanded of her maid in a crisp and jealous tone.

But Isabelle wasn't looking at Clary. She was looking at Jace, her face pale and white as a sheet, as if she were looking at a ghost.

She probably thought she was, Jace thought. For all she knew, he was supposed to be dead.

"Jace. Jace Herondale," she whispered.

Jace heard Clary suck in a startled gasp, and his golden eyes closed in submission when her hand fell limp in his.

"Jace, what—what is she talking about?" Clary whirled on him, her voice strained as if she were holding back tears. Her hand was no longer in his, and she had backed away from him, though the burn of her gaze on the side of his face remained, pleading with him for an explanation.

Jace didn't look at her—he couldn't bear to see the look of hurt, heartbreak and betrayal in her eyes—so he leveled Isabelle with a cold and distant mask instead.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he growled at his old friend in a low voice. He knew that he was being a coward by refusing to own up to the truth—by pretending—but he just _couldn't_. He couldn't lose Clary.

To his agony, a spark of fire appeared in Isabelle's eyes and she started yelling at him. "Don't deny it, Jace! No one else has golden eyes like you do. We've played together when we were children. _I know you_ —you've never lied, so don't start now!"

"Shut up. Just shut up, Isabelle!" Jace shouted back, overwhelmed with fury. "Don't pretend to be all-knowing and self-righteous, Isabelle Sophia Lightwood. I'm not the same person I once was. That boy _died_ the night Valentine murdered my parents." He glared at her vehemently and she gave him an equally steely look in return.

Neither of them showed signs of breaking anytime soon, but as fate would have it, they didn't need to. Clary's cry of astonishment severed their angry, cold gazes.

"You're a _Herondale_?" She choked, her hand pressed tightly against her mouth.

As soon as the words left her, hot tears spilled down her cheeks like a waterfall. _Herondale._ Her Jace was a Herondale, the blood of her father's sworn enemy, the people who had betrayed _her blood_. And… _My father killed his parents?_

"Isabelle, get out of here! Now!" Jace demanded.

The young handmaiden looked between the princess and the gladiator, the anger in her eyes now muted by shame and regret, then left without another word.

It was just Clary and Jace now—two lovers standing at the edge of a precipice. All it would take is for one final shove before they plummeted to the ground and broke.

Drawing a deep breath, Jace finally turned to the princess. "Clary," His golden eyes softened, and he started towards her, reaching his hand for hers.

"NO, DON'T!" She screamed.

Jace staggered back as though he had been slapped in the face, and he looked at her sadly.

" _Don't_. Don't you dare give me that look, y-you—YOU LIAR!" She spat venomously. "You _tricked_ me. You _played_ me for a fool and I believed you! I believed every _damned_ word you said. It turns out everything was just a sad sob story to make me feel sorry for you, wasn't it? That's all I ever was to you, right? I was just the needy Morgenstern girl you could toy with to get the information you want out of me—"

"That's not true!" Jace cut her off sharply.

"What in God's name is the truth then?" She yelled back. "You kept the fact that you were a Herondale a secret from me! You don't even love me—"

" _Don't. Tell. Me. How. I. Feel._ " Jace's voice was rough, and his golden eyes blazed with ire. They were both breathing heavily, looking as if they were seconds away from killing each other, but aware that neither could ever bring themselves to do it.

"Fine, I'll admit it," Jace was the first one to break resolve. "I didn't tell you I was a Herondale, and I never intended to," he told her in a defeated tone. Clary tried to argue at his confession but he quickly beat her to it. "I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd be like this! You'd shut me out just because of a stupid fact that I can't control—I'm a Herondale by blood, not because I choose to, and the same can be said for you! So why are you punishing me for this? Why are you pushing me away?"

Clary looked at him, her face resigned. "Because I _can't_ trust you." Her voice cracked.

Jace walked up to her and cupped her face in his hands. She squirmed but didn't do much to fight back, too overwhelmed by the sudden surge of warring emotions within herself—shock, hurt, anger, betrayal, devastation, _need_ —to pull herself away from his touch.

"Yes, you can. You're just telling yourself that because that's what Valentine has taught you to believe all these years," Jace said, his voice softening.

Clary's bottom lip trembled, but she stubbornly bit it, angry at herself for showing how much his words affected her. How much _he_ affected her.

"I meant every word I said to you, Clary. I keep secrets but I would never lie. And I never lied when I said that I loved you. I still do. Please, Clary. Please don't punish _us_ because of the blood feud between our parents. That's between them, not us. _Please_. Don't let the mistakes our parents made come in between our love. I love you—please," he pleaded with her urgently but her face was stoic and impassive _._ She had given up on them.

Jace's heart broke as realization crept up on him, but at the same time, it ignited his desire to prove her wrong. He had to try to convince her; he had to win her back somehow. He wasn't exaggerating when he'd told her that she was all he had left in this world. He couldn't live if he lost her—he couldn't bear to lose anymore. What he had in mind was a long shot—and she might hate him even more for it—but there was no other alternative he could think of.

 _Please work,_ he begged as he leaned down and claimed her lips with his.

" _Please_ ," he begged against her mouth, but his pleas fell on deaf, hardened ears.

When Clary sharply pulled herself from his grasp, swiping at her mouth as if he had dishonored her by kissing her—And he had! By all intents and purposes, he had _forced himself_ onto her, something he had vowed he would never do to another woman—shame and guilt racked through him. He deserved her hatred. He deserved her repulsion. He had never deserved _her_.

"How could you?" She whispered, refusing to meet his eyes. Her mouth quivered, and Jace's heart ached at the tears that were spilling down her cheeks. Her question was a loaded one: how could he have disrespected her boundaries by forcing a kiss onto her like that? How could he have betrayed her by keeping his real identity a secret from her? How could he have pretended to be anything other than the son of her father's enemy?

"Clary," Jace called her, sounding like a desperate child. "Clary, look at me. _Please._ "

That was that word again, Clary thought. ' _Please_.' As if pleas and apologies were enough to make up for the fact that he had betrayed her and used her. She had been stupid and careless before to allow it to happen, but she won't do it anymore. She _won't_.

Clary looked up at the man she loved with a blank expression, and resisted the urge to crumble as she saw his crestfallen face. He looked so broken, more than he had been at the meadow when he'd told her about his parents.

But she had to end this.

It was the only way to save herself from enduring more hurt in the future. She loved him, but she couldn't trust him. He probably wasn't just using her, but was trying to turn her against her father—because _her father_ single-handedly killed his parents and raped his mother. Or was that part a lie, too?

How could she possibly put herself up to the risk of having her heart smashed by him just for that small chance that he genuinely loved her?

 _To love is to destroy, Clarissa. And to be loved is to be the one destroyed,_ Her father's forbidding voice echoed in her head.

Clary used to think that her father was crazy to believe in such a thing—how could anything as beautiful as love possibly destroy someone? Wasn't love supposed to heal you and turn you into a stronger, better person?

But now that she thought of it, her father's words made perfect sense. Loving Jace was only going to destroy him _and_ her. She needed to end it, before they got in too deep—she needed to protect her heart.

"You know…even if I didn't know that you were a Herondale, none of this would have ever worked out between us," she said flatly, her words piercing Jace's heart like splinters. Her heart screamed at her to stop, to stop deceiving herself—to stop deceiving _him_ like this—but she didn't listen. She had already been a fool to listen to her heart where Jace was concerned…and the painful lesson she had learned was one too many and enough to last her a lifetime.

"We were immature and stupid to think that we could pursue this little _fantasy_ , and I'm sorry I led you on. Maybe now you can finally go back to what you've always planned and avenge your parents, huh? Go ahead and _kill my father_? Because trust me when I say this, Jace: When I wake up the next morning, I'm going to forget any of this ever happened," she said, her voice surprisingly strong and not betraying any of her real emotions.

Jace was shaking his head at her, telling her stop, but she spurred on, keeping the cold mask on her face intact.

"I was mad at Isabelle before, but _now_?" She barked out a laugh—a haughty Morgenstern-like laugh. "Now, I'm grateful for her. If it weren't for her, I would have never been able to see the truth; of how unbelievably _stupid_ and _naïve_ I was to not know the difference between love and infatuation. There's no possible way for someone to fall in love with another so quickly. And honestly? The reason I let this go on for as long as it did was because I detested the control my father had over my life. You were just a convenient excuse—"

"PLEASE JUST STOP," Jace begged her, his aureate eyes glazed over with unshed tears. "Please just stop lying to me. _I know you_. I know that you _love me_ —"

"DON'T TELL ME HOW I FEEL!" Clary threw his words back at him in a harsh screech, but the tears streaming down her face was enough of a confirmation for Jace to tell that she was lying to him.

As she tugged on her disheveled curls roughly in anger, Jace tried to pull her back into his arms…only to jerk back when her right hand came up and slapped him bitterly across the cheek. His head snapped to the side, his golden eyes blown wide with shock, but before he could stop her, Clary was already running out of the stables and out of his reach.

" _Clary_ …" Her name came out of his mouth in a hoarse whisper as Jace felt his knees give out. He sank down onto the floor of the stables, his face hung in defeat and his chest aching, heaving heavily with emotion.

 _She left me_ , he thought as his own tears rolled down his cheeks. _She loved me and she left me._

How the hell did one perfect night go perfectly wrong so quickly? Jace wanted to blame Isabelle; it was her fault that Clary found out he was a Herondale. If she hadn't shown up—if she had kept her mouth _shut_ —he could have had her for at least one more day.

One more day of ignorant bliss. One more day of her telling him that she loved him. One more day of belonging to her.

Now those days were gone and over.

He had lost her, the one person he had ever given his whole heart to—but as much as it was Isabelle's fault, a huge part of him knew that it was mostly, undoubtedly _his,_ too.

He should have stayed away from her from the start. He should have never let himself open up to her and set himself up for the inevitable heartbreak.

It was his fault. It was his own grievous fault.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Now, I know some of you might feel compelled to stab me with a pitchfork...but to be honest, Jace's identity reveal was a long time coming. This chapter is massive, not only because it gives the most amount of insight into Clary and Jace's thoughts and their feelings for each other, but because the events that took place here leads to the major turning point in the story. Lots of secrets are going to be unravelled from here on out, so just bear with me. And if anyone's worried, let me tell you this: Clary and Jace are endgame, so breakups are temporary as far as they are concerned.**_

 ** _Some explanations... I know Jace appears to be overly emotional in this chapter, which is slightly OOC for him, but his emotional breakdowns here were very necessary. Jace has a lot of baggage which he has suppressed over the years. As mentioned in one part, he never took the time to even mourn over what happened to him and his parents. He just kept storing it away by substituting his loss with feelings of rage; this was, of course, an unhealthy buildup. He was going to lose it at some point, and it happened to be when he was with Clary. The fact that he loves her, quite deeply (despite how short of a time they have been together), only serves to add to his vulnerability. After years of emotional seclusion, he craves for love as if it's a form of sustenance._**

 ** _As for Clary, she does love Jace. But can you blame a girl who has not had the best experience with men in her life to have an even stronger desire to protect herself? She can be quite confusing, I agree. She's full of contradictions. A part of her detests Valentine because he is a far cry from 'Dad of the Year' but because of some degree of self-denial, she doesn't want to condemn her father either. She genuinely wants to believe that there's good in him because the little girl in her craves for her father's love, hence she would take his word over Jace's (at least for the time being). Stick around to see how it plays out ;)_**

* * *

 _ **Thank you to all who have reviewed last chapter! I really do appreciate each and every one of you.**_

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 ** _Until next time, lovelies. Peace xoxo_**


	12. Chapter 11: Cold, Hard Truths

_**A/N: Repost! I'll try to get the next chapter up by next Saturday. In the meantime, please review! It makes me feel so much more motivated when you guys leave me your feedback. And if you haven't, please follow the story so that you'll be able to get notifications whenever I update. Peace!**_

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 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

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 **CHAPTER 11: COLD, HARD TRUTHS**

 _Jace's face scrunched up in pure irritation when he felt something ticklish brushing back and forth against his nose. Without opening his eyes, he swatted the thing away before snuggling further into the warmth that he was currently lying against._

 _A warm, tiny hand caressed his curls, soothing him, and he smiled dreamily to himself before leaning into the hand's touch. Just as he began to drift off into sleep, the offending thing returned, tickling his nose yet again. His entire face contorted into an irritated scowl before he violently swatted at the thing and begrudgingly opened his eyes._

 _As soon as light flooded his golden orbs, he was met with the most stunning pair of emerald green orbs._ _It was then that he realized that he was in the meadow, and that his head was currently perched on Clary's lap._

 _His scowl disappeared when the princess bent down and gave him a soft peck on the lips. It felt almost surreal to him how quickly they had adapted to being a couple. Since the exchange of their vows, there was hardly any hesitation when it came to kissing or touching—not anymore. Everything between them, despite being new, had grown into something familiar and natural—like breathing._

 _"What's wrong, Jace? Was something bothering you in your sleep?" Clary asked him in a sugary-sweet tone. Her index finger brushed against his nose in a back and forth motion, much like the 'thing' had done to him earlier._

 _Jace narrowed his eyes at her, though he didn't bother to remove his head from her lap. "As a matter of fact, yes. I could have sworn it was like some sort of insect that was trying to violate my nose," he replied in his usual sarcastic tone._

 _Clary tapped her chin in mock-thought. "Nope, you must have had an extremely vivid dream. I was watching you the whole time and I swear that nothing touched you," she said, almost too convincingly. But Jace happened to know better._ _He crossed his arms as he looked up at the cheeky, red-haired princess._

 _"Is that so?" He asked her._ _Clary nodded with an innocent smile._

 _"Well, I guess I just have to take your word for it, then. You, of all people, after all, would never lie to me…would you?" He asked._

 _"Never ever, you know my heart to be true," she answered, batting her eyelashes at him coyly._

 _He gave her a nod then sat up, stretching his arms above his head with a cavernous yawn. "Well, that settles it then. I suppose I do tend to have a vivid imagination sometimes," he continued, playing along with his smiling redhead._

 _"Hmm," she murmured absentmindedly as she stretched her own arms over her head._

 _Without warning, Jace lunged himself at Clary, his large hands seizing her sides as he viciously tickled her. Loud peals of giggles broke from the princess's lips as she tried countlessly—and in vain—to squirm away from his unrelenting hands._

 _It didn't take long for his laughter to join hers, and then they were rolling around on the grass like two young children, wrestling with each other without a care in the world._

 _When they finally stopped, Clary was sitting astride his stomach, her red curly tresses falling down in a curtain above him._ _His hands stilled on her waist as they stared, mesmerized, into each other's eyes._

 _Having traveled to many places in his life, Jace was privileged enough to have seen the many beauties of the world, though none quite rivaled with the beauty of his princess…his_ wife _. He had known that he was fortunate to have found her, but he never realized just how fortunate he was until now. No amount of landscapes, sunrises or sunsets could compare; he even dared to claim that she was the eighth wonder of the world—of_ his _world._

 _Jace lifted his head off the ground, just barely enough to nuzzle his nose against hers. His golden eyes darkened when he noticed the warm blush spreading across her cheeks._ _No words were spoken between them; just the looks they gave each other was sufficient to convey their affection._

 _Slowly, her hands came round to cup his cheeks and she bent down, kissing him so gently, her lips feeling so soft and tender against his. Jace smiled into the kiss before tugging Clary closer to him and deepening the kiss._

 _Right there in that moment, they told each other how they felt without having to say anything._ _After all, actions always did speak louder than words—and his kisses spoke volumes of how much he felt for her…of how much he_ loved _her._

 _When they broke apart mere minutes later, both gasping for much needed air, Clary leaned down and pressed her forehead to his._

 _Jace closed his eyes in contentment, thinking how much he wished that time could freeze so they could stay like that forever. Because even then he knew that it was all just a dream—a bittersweet dream but precious dream, where a princess said yes to marrying a gladiator. Where last names and blood feuds between families were of little consequence and bore no place in their love._

 _Where he could pretend that he was free._

* * *

 **October 1, 508**

As his back met the ground with another resounding thud, Jace's eyes fell shut and his face twisted into a pained grimace. This would have been the seventh time that Alec had gotten the upper hand on him in today's sparring match alone—the bruises on his body from the constant slamming and roughhousing could attest to that.

A groan passed his lips as he tried arching his back. His torso felt sore and tender, as did the rest of his limbs.

Just as he was about to call for a time-out, Alec's booted foot pressed down against his throat, pinning him down. On a regular day, Jace could have easily thrown him off and beat his parabatai, but he just wasn't feeling up to it. Lately, he wasn't feeling up to anything, really. For the entirety of his sparring session with Alec, he kept slipping into defense mode rather than going for his usual offense tactic. But even then, his moves were all half-hearted and sloppy—even he could tell how pathetic his performance was.

Jace's face reddened and his breathing became heavier as Alec's pressure on his throat increased. He wanted to tell him to stop—that he was _done_ —but even his voice failed him. Fortunately, Alec read the message of defeat in his eyes and relinquished his foot, but not without releasing an enraged growl.

Jace took in several large gasps of air and turned to his side, curling into a slight fetal position. Embarrassingly, he was about to nod off when Alec returned, this time grabbing him by the front of his tunic and hauling him off of the ground. He found his parabatai's strength rather remarkable, especially since he was certain that he was dragging his _deadweight_ , but then again, he didn't quite care—not even when Alec slammed him hard against the nearest stone pillar, causing the air to be knocked out of his lungs.

Jace stared at Alec's face weakly, his mouth parted just enough to allow the shallow gasps to escape him. His face was a bright crimson and drenched with sweat, and he looked— _felt_ completely and utterly disgusting. His dull golden eyes could barely focus on Alec, whose cerulean-blue eyes had darkened to resemble a tempestuous ocean. Jace knew that he was pissed at him, but all he actually wanted was for Alec to leave him the hell alone.

" _Let go._ " He shoved pathetically against Alec's chest, before allowing his leaden arms to fall sloppily to his side.

When the latter did let him go, he slumped down against the pillar and sat, staring up blankly into Alec's angry face. The black-haired boy yanked the front of his tunic again, just barely forcing him up onto his knees. Jace emitted a groan, but felt too weak and tired to protest, even though he knew how unnecessarily aggressive Alec was being.

"That's it, Jace! You've been like this for the past three days and I'm not taking it anymore! What the hell is wrong with you?" Alec roared into his face.

To the surprise of both men, Jace only let out a small whimper, and looked as if he were about to cry. Alec stared at him confoundedly for a moment—probably wondering why he was acting like a miserable, pathetic excuse—before his face turned cold again, and he drew his large hand back and slapped him hard across the face.

"TALK, JACE! What the hell is the matter with you?" He demanded, his voice gruff.

"Please just stop, Alec. _Please_ ," Jace begged, his voice a barely audible whisper. He shoved at Alec's chest again, and this time, he let him go, watching with a startled look as Jace sunk down and drew his knees up to his chest.

Alec was absolutely baffled. In all the years that he had known Jace, the golden-haired boy had never, _ever,_ used the word 'please'. Even as a child, he had always exuded an air of arrogance and pride that forbade him from pleading with anyone for mercy.

But now… Now it was almost as if he were completely different person. _A stranger._ Alec didn't know this boy, but at the same time, he _knew_ that he was hurting—and he cared for him.

Realizing that violence and hostility wasn't working in his favor, Alec decided to alter his methods. He cautiously sat down beside his friend, then placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong, Jace?" He asked in a gentle tone.

Jace looked up at him, a blank and tired expression on his visage. His tawny eyes held such an elegiac look that one would have thought that someone close to him had just died. Alec knew that it was impossible, of course. Everyone that Jace loved—his parents, anyway—were long gone. He had been on his own for eight years, so it made no sense for his grief to just resurface out of the blue. It wasn't even the anniversary of Valentine's invasion.

But then, Alec remembered a tiny little detail about a relatively tiny person who was probably the cause of all of his friend's pain.

"Is this about Clarissa Morgenstern?" He asked the blond boy quietly. His inkling was confirmed when Jace flinched, as if hurt by the mere mention of the girl's name.

"Didn't I tell you to stay away from her?" Anger incidentally seeped into his tone. "No, you just had to be stubborn, didn't you? What the hell were you trying to prove, Jace?"

Jace's head finally snapped to face Alec, and he leveled him with a cold look. "I wasn't trying to prove anything, Alec. _I love her_ ," he confessed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I love her, and now she hates me because she knows." His voice was muffled and lined with woe and heartbreak.

"Knows what, Jace?" Alec asked him, his face perplexed. He had thought that when Jace first brought Clary up all those weeks ago, it was because of a silly momentary obsession that he was having with the princess. He had never expected for him to fall in love with her, not when her father was the one responsible for his parents' deaths, and the reason behind Jace even being a slave in the first place.

"She knows that I'm a _Herondale_ ," he spat his family name as though it were a venomous curse.

 _It probably is_ , Jace thought sourly. His parents had _probably_ done all of those things that Clary had described to him about in the market. They had _probably_ been vicious backstabbers and framed Valentine for stealing the kingdom's funds just so that they could usurp the throne. It would justify why Jace was the one paying the price for _their mistakes_ —why he was the one being punished now.

Honestly, there was really no telling what was the truth anymore. Besides, who could he possibly ask to corroborate the facts? His parents were dead. Valentine would want _him_ dead if he knew about his existence—and he had already established that the demon was a mastermind manipulator anyway, so his words would basically mean nothing to him. Then, _Clary_ …

That was the source of his problem. The seed of doubt that Clary had planted into his head had since then grown and manifested into a bud on the verge of blooming.

God, he knew how much he was betraying his parents, _his own blood_ , for even questioning their innocence and for thinking the absolute worst of them. How could _they_ —the kindest, most respectable people he had ever known—possess such audacity to do something so wretched and scandalous? But then again, no one was ever perfect, right? Not even his own parents—they were only human, after all. Everything was a definite possibility.

"WHAT?" Alec yelled, disbelief and anger coloring his tone. "How the hell does she even know that? Why did you even tell her that, Jace? What if she told her father about you? Are you trying to get yourself killed by Valentine?"

Jace glared at Alec, his hands clenching into tight fists that turned his knuckles white. "I didn't tell her, Alec! Besides, if she'd told Valentine about me, don't you think I would have already been dead by now?" He snapped.

"Then _how_ the hell did she even find out about it?"

Jace's golden eyes darkened in fury, and the vein in his neck muscle throbbed. "Because your stupid sister Isabelle found out who I was and told her!" He yelled.

Alec's face turned white. "Izzy?"

"Yes— _Izzy_ ," Jace huffed angrily. "When the hell were you going to tell me about your little sister being Clary's maid, huh Alec? This whole time we've been training you've never once let slip any information about your sister or what happened to the rest of your family. And yet you claim to be my _parabatai_ ," he snarled.

"I… I didn't know what happened to them, Jace," Alec whispered morosely.

Jace looked at him in disbelief. The mere thought of Isabelle's betrayal was enough to scorch the blood in his veins, but to hear her brother—his own best friend— _lie_ to his face? He wanted to do nothing more than to hit him. "Noble and righteous to the very end, are you?" He sneered scornfully. "Admit it already, Alec! Exactly what are you trying to accomplish by lying to me?"

In an instant, Alec's blue eyes reclaimed their fury. "I am not lying, Jace! I never have!" He said defensively. "When Valentine conquered Idris, the first thing he did was to get rid of the people closest to your father… He started with my parents, Robert and Maryse Lightwood, because they were your parents' advisors. And after they took my parents out, they split me up from my siblings—Max stayed with Izzy because he was still a baby, and since I was fourteen at the time, they thought the best place to put me was in _here_ to train as a gladiator! I haven't seen them since! I didn't know they worked as servants for the Morgensterns!"

Guilt rose in Jace and he let out a dejected sigh. "I'm sorry, Alec. I didn't mean take this out on you. I'm just really _frustrated_." That was an understatement, of course. He was more than just frustrated. He was confused, hurt, devastated and a lot of other things. "Izzy ruined everything for me and Clary. We—"

"Did you really think you had a chance with her, Jace?" Alec asked him, his tone earnest. "Even if Izzy never told her who you really were…did you think you'd have a chance?"

"I didn't think it mattered that she's a princess and that I'm a slave. Up until she found out who my parents were, she didn't care. She…she told me that she _loved_ me." Jace shook his head. "W-we would've been able to figure something out."

"You're only saying that because that's what you want yourself to believe," Alec said. "Look, just stop living in denial and get your head out of your ass. Deep down, you know that it would have never worked out. How long did you think you'd be able to hide from her who you really were without breaking? How long do you think you could possibly stand her without having _her_ remind you of Valentine and what he did?"

Jace yanked a handful of grass out of the ground and threw it away from him angrily. "That's the thing, Alec! Whenever I'm with Clary, I don't think about Valentine; I don't think about revenge. It's only Clary— _just Clary_. That's why I even gave our relationship a chance. Because I thought that we could be together, regardless of who our parents are, _were_ …" He shook his head. "I wanted, more than anything, to believe that our feelings for each other would be strong enough to overcome our pasts," he said.

"And if Valentine found out about you two?" Alec asked skeptically. "You both would be _dead_ , Jace. This sort of love—It's forbidden. It would have never ended well. You should probably thank Izzy for saving your ass when she did."

"You're one to talk," Jace muttered bitterly. " _Forbidden love_ , Alec? Don't try to preach to me against something you're clearly guilty of as well," he said snidely.

Alec's entire body stiffened. "I-I don't know what—"

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" Jace interrupted, the sarcasm thick in his voice. "Let's see… Does the name _Magnus Bane_ ring any bells?"

Alec paled at the mention of the eccentric doctor. "I'm just a slave assigned to help him, Jace—you know that," he answered weakly.

"Oh? I have reason to believe that there's more to the two of you than you're letting on." He gave him a pointed look. "I _saw_ you— _both of you_. A week ago, when you returned to the cells late…you were with Magnus. He thought no one else was watching so he kissed you—and you didn't even push him away."

Alec froze.

"What? Not going to deny that you're gay, Alec?" Jace taunted.

"I…I'm not—" Alec stammered weakly. Several emotions flashed across his face then: shock, shame, but most of all, _fear_. "That's none of your business, Jace," he finally decided.

"And neither is my relationship with Clary any of yours," Jace snapped in a brusque tone. "You'll do well to remember that, _Alexander_."

He stood up and stalked off the field, leaving Alec to stare at his back with a dumbfounded look on his face.

* * *

 _Jace was in the Arena Dumont again._

 _The sun was beating down on him mercilessly, causing rivers of sweat to trickle down his face. Underneath his armor, his tunic was completely drenched through, leaving him with an unpleasant odour that made even him feel nauseous._

 _To make matters worse, a huge bonfire was built in the middle of the arena, the flames licking the piles of wood greedily. Jace cursed. For what purpose would a bonfire even serve in a battle amongst gladiators? An instant cremation? A funeral pyre?_

 _If it wasn't the sharp end of his opponent's sword that would bring him to his downfall, then it would certainly be this unbearably torrid heat, he thought._

 _As the horn signaling his opponent's entrance blared throughout Dumont, Jace's muscles instantly become taut with tension and anticipation._

 _The crowd was cheering his name wildly, their voices galvanizing him to keep his stance poised and steady as the gates holding back his opponent were raised._

 _Moments later, his opponent stepped out onto the arena and stalked towards him confidently_. _He had a muscular build and appeared to be slightly bigger than Jace, and though his face was obscured by a helmet, he was able to discern the unmistakably cold, malicious charcoal-black eyes piercing through them. They belonged to the man whom he despised with every fiber of being_ —

 _Valentine Morgenstern._

 _Jace let out a ferocious snarl, the grip on his sword tightening to the point where his nails were digging into his own skin. His anger and hatred coursed through his blood and flared in his veins, mimicking the flames rising from the bonfire._

 _He didn't wait; he immediately lunged forward, raising his sword high up in the air, the polished blade catching the sun's rays and forming a blinding glint. Valentine raised his hands up to shield his eyes from the coruscation, and when he finally removed them, Jace's sword was already lodged deeply in his chest and piercing his cold, black heart._

 _The fiend gasped sharply, and instantly, his breathing grew labored. It was like watching a fish out of water as it flailed around frantically and gaped in vain for oxygen_ — _helpless. Valentine Morgenstern was as helpless as the dark patch of red that was beginning to bloom at a rapid rate on his chest._

 _Jace yanked the sword out of his foe's body harshly_ — _as if he were Arthur releasing Excalibur from its stone. With a callous smirk, he drew his leading foot back, then kicked Valentine hard—at the exact spot where he had stabbed him. He grinned as the fiend flew backwards and landed directly in the center of the bonfire, where the flames were the most violent. Valentine's tormented screams instantly penetrated the air._

 _Letting out a dark chuckle, Jace sauntered towards the inferno coolly, a look of grim satisfaction etched onto his face. All around him, the crowd's cheers reverberated through the arena_ — _they cheered his name, singing their praises for him, revering him, adulating him for finally ridding them of the demon._

 _Yes, this was the culmination, the epicenter of all of his hard work on display_ — _the one moment he'd spent the last eight years building himself up for: to watch as his enemy perished, burning in Earth's own version of hell. Valentine deserved every bit of pain coming to him, and Jace didn't feel a single ounce of regret for delivering him to it._

 _Just as he turned to leave, Valentine began to change_. _Like a shape-shifting demon, he evolved—his body recasting into another's shape, taking on another's form._ _His deep, thunderous voice was replaced by a girl's high-pitched screams, and his tall, muscular body morphed to resemble a petite teenage girl's form_. _A girl with curly red hair that matched the inferno, and emerald green eyes that shone like spring_ —

 _Clary._

 _Her tiny body writhed and convulsed violently in pain, her loud screams piercing and shattering the very depths of Jace's soul as she helplessly called out his name, and pleaded for him to save her._

 _But Jace could do nothing._

 _He couldn't will his feet forward to pull her out of the flames. He couldn't do anything but stand there and watch_ —

 _He watched, frozen and wide-eyed, as the love of his life slowly burned away, her beautiful, flawlessly freckled ivory skin now marring with blisters and bloody red scars, slowly disintegrating into a pile of gray ashes…_

* * *

"CLARY!" Jace screamed as he bolted awake, his face coated with a thick sheen of sweat. He rubbed his hands over his face shakily, silent sobs racking his body as morbid images of his burned lover replayed in his mind.

Overwhelmed with agitation, he slammed his head backwards against the wall, hoping that the act would help cease the terrible assault of images that were beginning to sear a hole in his brain.

 _What a cruel nightmare!_ He swore profusely in his head. _A cruel, cruel nightmare!_

He jumped, startled when a warm hand came down on his shoulder. The gesture was meant to offer him solace and comfort, but Jace felt none of it. He tentatively removed his trembling hands from his face, his lifeless, tawny orbs meeting Michael's concerned brown ones. What was his master doing here?

"Jace, are you all right?" Michael asked him, frown lines etched deeply into his aging face.

"I don't know," Jace answered tremulously, his voice thick from sleep and crying.

Michael seated himself next to him, silence filling the space between them as Jace tried to regain his composure. Once his breathing had slowed down, Michael finally spoke: "Jace, we need to talk. About you," he said in a hushed tone.

Jace sniffled. "I'm not sure I want to," he mumbled, his voice still quavering slightly.

"This is not open for a debate, Jace. I want you to be honest with me. I want answers from you, and I want them _now_ ," Michael said sternly.

Jace glowered at him. "You may be my master, but you don't _own_ me. You don't get to tell me what to do. I'm not some spineless, little wuss that you can boss around, so let that stick in your head," he returned sharply.

Michael sighed wearily. "This conversation is about your parents as much as it is about the Morgensterns," he said gravely, causing Jace to perk up. He stared at Michael disbelievingly for a moment, his golden eyes piqued with curiosity, before he masked his face again to look distant and emotionless.

"What is there to talk about my parents? They're dead. It doesn't matter to me anymore. Clary has already told me about what happened between them and Valentine," he said stoically. Memories of the day he first met Clary flooded his mind, and he shuddered at the pain it brought him. He really missed her. "I've sworn to avenge my parents and I _will_ , but I don't wish to think about them anymore," Jace said, a note of finality in his tone.

Michael squeezed his shoulder lightly, then leveled him with a serious look. "What did the princess tell you, Jace?" He asked in a measured tone.

Jace laughed dryly. "Why the hell do you care? If you knew something, you should have said it eight years ago. It's a little too late now," he answered petulantly.

"Because the truth matters, _Shadowhunter._ Are you willing to accept information about something you know could very well be a lie? Are you willing to throw everything you are away and hate your parents _—your family name—_ just because of a stupid, little girl?" Michael raised his voice.

Jace glared at him. "First of all, I don't hate my parents—I just don't believe that they're as innocent as they're made out to be. _There's a difference._ And secondly," he lowered his voice into a dangerous, warning tone, "Don't you ever talk about _her_ like that. You don't know anything about her—"

"And you do, Jace?" Michael retaliated.

Jace glowered at him. "I know enough," he defended.

Michael released a long sigh before averting his gaze. "But you don't know the truth about your parents still," he said jadedly. "Whatever this _Clary_ told you could have very well been a lie. Everything she knows comes from Valentine—and _Valentine_ ," he stressed on the villain's name, "is a liar. He's relentless. He would lie to anyone—his own children included—just to save his own skin."

"Oh, because all of a sudden you know Valentine so well?" Jace remarked wryly.

At this, Michael looked at him straight in the eye. "I know Valentine as much as I know Stephen and Celine Herondale because I—I grew up with them," he said hesitantly.

Jace gave him an incredulous look.

"Don't give me that look, Jace. Do you want to hear this or not?" He snapped.

Jace shrugged nonchalantly and nodded once. He didn't actually care, but Michael was being unusually persistent. At least, the sooner he was done, the sooner he would leave him alone with his thoughts. He didn't need anyone here. He didn't _need_ anyone here but Clary.

"This isn't going to be easy for me to tell you, Jace, but I want you to promise that you won't interrupt me until I'm absolutely done. Even if you get mad at me and want to rip my head off, you'll learn to control yourself and save it for when I've finished explaining everything. Do you understand?" Michael told him in an authoritative tone.

Jace was puzzled, especially by his master's second statement— _Why the hell would I lose my temper at him and want to kill him?_

Realizing he would only get his answer by listening to what Michael had to say, he begrudgingly complied with his wishes.

Michael inhaled a deep breath, and the small act made him look, strangely, older. Then he finally spoke, the words leaving him in a rush. "When I was growing up in Idris, my family, the Waylands, had always been close to the Morgenstern family. Valentine and I have known each other since we were toddlers. We grew up as friends—best friends—until his parents adopted your father, Stephen Herondale. We were five years old at the time, and Stephen was only about three or four. It was when your father came into the picture that Valentine and I started to drift apart, and I later became Stephen's best friend. Valentine was jealous at first, but he later moved on and found a confidant in Lucian Graymark."

Michael paused to look at Jace, who wore a baffled look on his face. He wasn't entirely shocked by the news of his father's adoptive relations with Valentine—since he had already heard about it once from Clary—but Michael's confirmation still floored him.

"With me so far, Jace?"

Jace nodded, a little unsurely, but let Michael continue.

"Valentine was always jealous of Stephen. You see, despite Stephen being Marcus and Seraphina Morgenstern's adopted son, he was very much loved by them. In fact, they treated him as though he were their own flesh and blood, which made Valentine feel very unnerved and threatened. He was afraid that his parents loved Stephen more than him and would crown him as king of Idris instead. It didn't help either that Stephen was always seen as the better son—he was always filial and obedient, unlike Valentine who was brash, reckless, and often rebelled against his parents.

"When he was nineteen, Valentine began traveling to Alicante to watch the gladiator games in secret. It was there that he met with the ruling family of Alicante, the Verlacs, and forged a strong relationship with them. He was so amazed by the games, that within a short period of their friendship, the Verlacs managed to convince him into becoming an investor. And in exchange, they offered him their hospitality and told Valentine that they would come to his aid whenever a dire situation called for it."

Michael paused again, assessing Jace's reaction. His expression was stoic and unreadable, but on the inside, his mind was assaulted by an array of unfiltered thoughts. He knew that Valentine couldn't have acted alone on the night of his invasion since he had amassed a considerably large army, but now he knew who _exactly_ had been helping him…and he wasn't happy in the very least. "Go on," Jace prodded him, his tone emotionless.

Michael nodded solemnly, looking more wary this time. "Around that same time, Valentine was also seeing your mother, Celine—" Jace's jaw involuntarily clenched at the mention of his mother. Now _this_ …the mere idea of the sick, poor excuse of a human being previously courting his mother—with the intent of making her _his_ —was repulsive. "—But she never actually loved him. They met for the first time when she attended the royal court with her father. Valentine was immediately drawn to her…so after her father gave his permission for Valentine to begin courting her, your mother had no choice but to go along with it.

"But it was obvious that anyone who was watching that Celine was reluctant. Valentine treated her as though she was his possession, and your mother didn't like that. Stephen, on the other hand—whenever Celine was invited to join the royal family for dinner—respected your mother. They became quick friends…and since Valentine was often away in Alicante for the games, it gave Celine the opportunity to meet up with Stephen without his knowledge. She would often confide in your father, and before long, they fell in love."

Jace smiled a little to himself, remembering how much his parents had loved each other. Growing up, he had always loved watching them together—secretly, of course. Whenever they were in the same room, they would always gravitate towards each other like magnets. Never repelling. Always touching, even if it were as simple a gesture as holding hands or the brushing of fingers. He envied their kind of love. He thought he'd found _it_ with Clary, but…

Jace sighed, willing his mind to forget her and to concentrate on Michael's words.

"Valentine was enraged when he found out that Celine had cheated on him with Stephen, but he wasn't willing to just give her up to his adopted brother. They both fought over your mother, but in the end, of course, she chose to be with your father. That was when the bad blood between them intensified…"

"What a sore loser," Jace muttered to himself. Either Michael didn't hear him or chose not to, because he continued as if he were never interrupted.

"Stephen had never outrightly behaved coldly towards Valentine, but the moment your mother became involved in their feud, he became extremely protective of her," Michael said. "His plans were never to sabotage Valentine's chances of becoming king—Stephen was far too honorable for that—but after discovering about Valentine's activities in Alicante…the laundering of the kingdom's funds for a sport he knew his adoptive father hated, he didn't hesitate to report Valentine's activities to their parents.

"Marcus and Seraphina Morgenstern were so disappointed and incensed by Valentine's treason that they threw him out, stripping him of all his ties to the family and his initial right to the throne in Idris. Following Valentine's sentence to exile, Alicante stepped in as promised and offered him sanctuary. His passion and zeal for the games led the Verlacs to appoint him as the games manager. Needless to say, in spite of everything, Valentine had a relatively good life in Alicante… He had his good friend Lucian Graymark by his side…and a few months after he'd settled down, he met Jocelyn Fairchild and married her, and they had their firstborn, Jonathan Christopher, shortly after."

"Wait!" Jace interrupted, restlessness transparent on his face. "How do you even know anything about Valentine's life in Alicante? Weren't you my father's General in Idris?" He asked his master, somewhat exasperatedly.

Michael glared at him before smacking him on the back of his head. It wasn't painful, but Jace still flinched from surprise. "I thought I made it clear to not interrupt me!" He growled.

Jace rolled his eyes. "Sorry," he said, although he was far from sorry for his interruption. "Carry on then, _sir_ ," he drawled sarcastically.

Michael bristled in annoyance. "Good. Now, where was I?" He asked aloud while fingering his chin pensively. As his face lit up with memory, he composed himself again, switching his tone to a more somber one. "Meanwhile, in Idris, the kingdom prospered in the five years of Valentine's exile…until finally, Marcus Morgenstern fell gravely ill. After the physician told him that he was dying, Marcus immediately set to writing his will, and during his final meeting with his council, he declared your father as his successor. He died shortly thereafter, and Stephen was coronated a few days after his funeral. At the time, your parents had already been married for over a year and your mother was pregnant with you. Word of Stephen's ascension spread, and Valentine's hatred for your father was reignited once more. He sought revenge, but he was cunning; he let them believe that he had faded into obscurity and had no plans of returning to Idris, when in actual fact, he was studiously conspiring with the Verlacs."

There was another pause as Michael caught his breath. This time, he looked rueful, his tone growing heavier as if he were ashamed and sorry about what he was telling Jace. "Despite my loyalties to your father, I was curious about the games in Alicante. I had heard so many great things about it. It had grown so much over the years, and I just couldn't resist. So, one day, I ventured into Alicante, and watched the games as a spectator, intending it to be a one-time thing. I had never expected to be so enthralled by it—and from that day on, I started visiting Alicante more often."

Michael gave Jace a nervous look. "Jace, you may not remember this, but when you were born, Stephen made your godfather. I watched you grow up until you were a toddler—that was when I finally decided to resign as your father's General, and moved to Alicante. After that, I lost contact with your father, and I stopped seeing you."

Jace's jaw went slack at Michael's revelation of their true relationship. He couldn't believe that Michael wasn't just his master, but his _godfather_ —the supposed closest thing he had left to a family. And yet, for the last eight years, Michael had him fooled into thinking that he was all alone in this world, that he had… _nothing_. He would be lying if he claimed that Michael's betrayal didn't sting. He wanted him as his personal moneymaker, but he didn't want him as a godson? The very thought sent his fists clenching.

"I won't blame you if you hate me, Jace, or if you think that I'd abandoned you. I truly am sorry about that," he said with a heavy sigh. "And… I'm even more sorry about what I'm about to tell you," he told him with a dismal glance.

Jace sighed loudly. _What now?_ He thought icily.

A part of him was compelled to stop Michael then and there and to dismiss him from his side. Perhaps living in ignorance was a far more blissful option. It hurt less when he didn't know the many truths that had been concealed from him. But instead, he said nothing.

"For the first six years that I lived in Alicante, life was more or less peaceful. I lived averagely, working as a blacksmith. But at the same time, I would make extra money by taking part in wagers during the games. It was a terrible mistake—I grew addicted to gambling. At first, it worked in my favor, but after a while, I started to lose money. I was at my wits' end, but I couldn't stop. It was like a sickness. I turned to loansharks and my debt worsened. I was in a lot of trouble…I barely escaped the one time I was cornered and nearly killed by them. That was when I accidentally ran into…" Michael swallowed uneasily, then released a shuddering breath. "… _Valentine_."

Jace's knuckles were white from how tightly he was clenching his fists, but he remained uncharacteristically quiet. Michael apparently took his silence as a sign to keep going.

"Valentine, as it turns out, had eyes and ears in Alicante," Michael said, his voice quieter, "He had known for a while about my life there. He had been spying on me, waiting for the right time to approach me. When I dug myself into a grave that was too deep for me to climb out of, he gave me an ultimatum—he offered to help me resolve my money troubles and to reward me handsomely, at the price of…joining him in his crusade to overthrow Stephen and to reclaim the throne in Idris. And I-I was desperate so I… _I accepted it_ ," Michael admitted, flinching when he saw the muscle at the side of Jace's mouth twitch.

"And what then?" Jace demanded in a dangerously low growl. His body was shaking with barely repressed anger and golden eyes had narrowed into slits like a predator's. Michael visibly shrunk away from him, fear flashing in his eyes. "Speak. _Now._ "

The older man gulped. "S-since I had been a m-member of Idris's army for a re-relatively long t-time," he stammered pathetically, "Valentine s-saw me as—as useful ad-addition to his p-plan. He—he had me—m-mapping out the def-defense system in Idris and coming up with a—a b-battle s-strategy for th-the invasion."

 _TRAITOR!_ Jace's murderous demon yelled. He bared his teeth, like how one would imagine a wolf snarling at his prey before he pounced.

Michael shook his head blindly, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "Jace, I'm sor—"

Michael didn't even have time to finish his apologies when Jace was already lunging for him, shouting a string of hate-filled obscenities and punching him furiously.

Their screams—Michael's pained ones and Jace's outraged yells—echoed throughout the cells, awakening the rest of its inhabitants and drawing the attention of the guards outside. Within minutes, a rush of pounding boots could be heard before the cell door was thrown open and five guards barged into the room.

By then, Michael had already looked worse for the wear. His entire face was bloodied and almost disfigured, his nose was broken, and both of his eyes were nearly sewn shut.

Jace wrestled against the hands as they dragged him away from his master's abused form. He had been weak before, but somehow, his anger had caused his strength to return to him _tenfold._ It took the strength of all five men to hold him down and bind him, one pair of handcuffs to his hands, and another set to his feet. Even then, he continued to squirm and writhe on the floor as if a man enduring an apoplectic fit, barking a stream of profanities at the guards and demanding that they removed the manacles from him.

"Master Scarsbury," One of the guards helped Michael to sit up, but he weakly dismissed him. "Master Scarsbury, you should have a doctor look at your injuries."

"No," Michael pushed the guard away from him again. "Please. Leave me with him. Let me speak with my gladiator alone."

"Master Scarsbury—"

"Please," Michael said. He grimaced and cupped his bleeding nose. "Let me speak with him…and then I'll leave. He can't do any more harm," Michael said, gesturing to Jace's chained state. The golden-haired boy was still raving like an outraged lunatic.

"Five minutes, sir," The guard said. "And then we have to sedate him. He's causing too much of a disturbance amongst the rest of the gladiators. We can't have him inspiring a riot."

Michael nodded weakly and watched as the guards left the cell. Then, he dragged himself over to Jace's still writhing body. He braced himself into an almost sitting position, using the wall as a support to hold his weight up.

Jace glared at him, a murderous look burning in his golden eyes—a look that had never been more manifest than it was now.

" _Jace_ ," Michael croaked.

"Don't you dare talk to me, you traitorous snake!" Jace yelled murderously. "You're the reason my parents are dead! You're the reason I'm even in this mess in the first place! I hate you! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

"Jace, I'm sorry—"

"You can keep your apologies to yourself! I'll never forgive you, you backstabbing piece of filth! My parents trusted you and you betrayed them! You should be dead! NOW LET ME GO!"

One of the guards reentered the room, a syringe in his hand. Against Jace's violent protests, he inserted the needle into his arm and injected him with the sedative drug.

After a while, Jace's livid yells and movements ceased as he finally succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

 _ **A/N: My thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter :) Old readers, new readers, I appreciate all of you just the same.**_

 ** _Let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Not much changes here from how I originally wrote it. Just mostly cleaned up the sentence structures and all that... TBH, I cringe when I read my original works sometimes. Like ugh, some of the things I used to write, or rather, how I used to write them, came off as pretty juvenile to me (probably still do at times, but oh well)..._**

 ** _SOME CLACE SCENES TO LOOK OUT FOR NEXT CHAPTER! STAY TUNED!_**

 _ **Until next then, xoxo!**_


	13. Chapter 12: Surreptitious Meetings

**_Author's Note: My thanks as always to those who reviewed last chapter. BennieWaffles, a special shoutout to you because your review especially made me grin like mad ;) Please R & R!_**

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 12: SURREPTITIOUS MEETINGS**

 **October 2, 508**

Jace sighed wearily as he absentmindedly polished the saddles. He was avoiding having to tend to Wayfarer or The Countess as much as possible, for the two horses reminded him too much of Clary. He knew that he was being stupid, moping around like a heartbroken girl, but he couldn't help it.

Clary wasn't just any girl to him. She had given him more love and affection than anyone had ever given him in the last eight years…all despite knowing that he was just a mere gladiator. Shouldn't that at least mean something?

And besides, if Clary didn't return his feelings, if she didn't love him as much as he did her, then shouldn't she have reported him to Valentine by now and have him arrested?

Four days had gone and passed since she left him, and yet, there were absolutely no sign at all of Valentine knowing about his existence. If she didn't love him, then why was she harboring his identity, his secrets? Why was she _protecting_ him?

Jace shook his head, trying to rid himself of his thoughts about Clary when the bitter memory of his conversation with Michael last night invaded his mind. Instantly, his face turned into a scowl and he fisted the polishing cloth in his hand tightly.

There was only one word that perfectly summed up how he felt about Michael, and that word was _betrayed._

For eight years, he lived with the man who had been partially responsible for his parents' deaths. For eight years, he lived oblivious to the knowledge that Michael not only knew his sworn enemy, but had conspired with him to take down his parents. And he couldn't help but wonder— _how?_

How could Michael even live with himself knowing what he had done to the Herondales? And an even more bewildering thought, how could he have lived _with_ Jace, to use him shamelessly as if he had done him no wrong?

It was one thing that he'd betrayed Stephen, his own best friend, because of his own stupidity. Remorse—if he felt any at all—hadn't stopped him from _using_ Jace, and for all the same reason: the games!

 _What a heinous, shallow scoundrel,_ Jace thought with contempt.

Hypocrite. Traitor. Coward.

After last night, when he had beaten Michael to a pulp, his master had upped and left him in Idris to the hands of Valentine's minions, undoubtedly afraid that Jace would kill him on sight. He didn't even leave his so-called 'prized' gladiator with so much as a letter to explain things to him, and that only made Jace feel even more hurt and betrayed.

Despite everything, Michael was still his godfather, wasn't he? He was _supposed to_ look after Jace. And yet, he had abandoned him, again, as though Jace was nothing more than an expendable toy.

Was that all he really was to Michael? The man he had looked to as a father figure in the last eight years had so easily discarded him to save his own skin.

Jace chuckled darkly. It was ironic, really, how Michael had criticized Valentine, calling him 'relentless' and a 'liar', when in truth, he was no better than the fiend himself.

After everything Jace had done for him, all the bruises and injuries from training and numerous battles in the arena, he had thought that he would have at least meant something special to Michael. But alas, his so-called _godfather_ just had to take it all away and throw it in his face, as though everything was nothing more than a big, cruel joke.

God knew how much he wanted to be the one to kill Michael—he could have done it yesterday and broken the traitor's neck with a single flick of his wrist—but instead, he had spared him mercy. He had been _hesitant_ despite his own overwhelming anger. And why?

That was the tricky part.

Jace couldn't quite explain it, and frankly, he might never even admit it out loud, but the subconscious part of him had always longed for someone to care for him, and to love him…like a son. Was that too much to ask for?

Apparently, yes.

With everything that had come into light, the mere idea of forgiving Michael was an act of divine, but to want Michael as a father? It was downright _insane_. The man was twisted in ways that even he couldn't fathom. If Jace had meant anything to him as a godson, then shouldn't he be raising him like a normal father would, instead of throwing him out to the wolves?

Jace felt the anger starting to build in him again and he flung the polishing cloth in his hand across the stables with a frustrated grunt. His mind was going in circles! It was all just too messed up, and he was growing _sick_ of it. Out of all the billions of people in this world, why did _he_ have to be the one to suffer such a cruel fate?

He shut his eyes and pinched the space in between his eyebrows as emotion weighed heavily in his chest. He didn't know if he wanted to scream, cry, or to let his angry, violent demon have its way and destroy the stables. Of the three options, the last one was probably the most reckless and stupidest thing to do, so he quickly dismissed the idea.

Michael might have removed himself from the picture, but that didn't mean that he should act rashly and risk getting captured for _vandalism_ of all things. A prince turned gladiator turned vandal? How pathetic that would seem.

Shaking his head, Jace let out a laugh, but the noise that escaped him sounded closer to a choked sob. He turned his gaze to the sky, past the glass ceiling of the stables, and glared.

 _God! What have I ever done that was so deplorable for you to punish me like this? Why do you keep punishing me? Have I not suffered enough? Have I not lost enough already?_

As Jace continued to silently fume, he was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of a young woman clearing her throat.

He swiveled around, for a moment hoping that it was Clary, only to be met with the disappointing sight of Isabelle instead. She was gnawing on her fingernails nervously, her brown eyes shifty and overwhelmed with guilt.

He gave her a black look, not even bothering to pretend that he was going to be civil with her, not after everything _she_ had caused.

"What the hell do you want from me, Izzy?" He snarled at her in an acidic tone, satisfied when he saw her flinch.

"I want to apologize, Jace," she answered in a small voice, sounding so meek and scared, unlike the Isabelle he knew—unlike the Isabelle he had seen several nights ago.

"Your regret is duly noted. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like you to leave me alone. I have duties to carry out here and your obtrusion is nothing but an extreme inconvenience. Go meddle somewhere else," he snapped, his voice sharp and colder than ice.

"Please, Jace…just hear me out," she pleaded with him as she cautiously approached him.

Jace didn't reply. He folded his arms across his chest and sent her a hostile glare that said she had about ten seconds to speak up before he sent her out of the stables by force.

"Clary misses you, Jace," she said, and Jace felt his heart throb at the sound of her name. He clenched his eyes shut, pushing down the pain it brought him.

"Clary doesn't want me, Izzy," the words left him in a rush of defeat. "She made it clear to me that night, when you so _generously_ revealed to her that I was a Herondale," he said, his words biting though his tone was flat.

Isabelle winced at the mention of the incident four nights ago. It was her fault that Jace and Clary had even broken up in the first place, and she had never felt more burdened with guilt. She remembered the look on Clary's face when she had returned to her chambers that night. She had never seen her look so…blank.

Her eyes had acknowledged Isabelle's presence with such cold jadedness that made her seem like her father, the tyrannous King—something Isabelle hadn't been prepared for. If it weren't for the tears and dirt that streaked her face, she would have thought that the Clary she knew had been lost forever.

Then, the princess had sunk down onto her bed, eyes staring unblinkingly out of her open window. "Don't tell anyone," she had said. And that was it—three words filled wih so much heartbreak and unbidden longing for the lover she had only lost.

Clary hadn't blamed her or chastised her for wrecking her relationship with Jace, but Isabelle could tell that deep down, she wanted to. But instead of succumbing to that desire, she had resorted to putting up walls around her, refusing to talk to anybody unless it was her father, and even then, speaking seemed like such a painful act on her part.

"Yes, she does, Jace," Isabelle finally said, her tone earnest. "Despite everything, despite all the hurtful things that she might have said to you, you know that she loves you. The only reason she said any of that was because of all the lies that her father had fed her with since she was young about your family. She was just looking to protect her own heart from being smashed into bits by you."

Jace tensed in anger before he glared at Isabelle, his golden eyes lit with dangerous fire. "I would never do that to her!" He hurled defensively, raising his voice.

"I know that, Jace! But she doesn't know that!" Isabelle bit back, her tone matching his. She inhaled a deep breath to calm her nerves, before sighing softly. "Listen…why don't you try explaining things to her?" She suggested in a softer, and much gentler, voice.

Jace let out a mirthless laugh. Was Isabelle stupid? "Yes, that's a wonderful suggestion, Izzy. Why don't I just try that? After all, Clary isn't as stubborn as a mule. And besides, it's not like anyone would mind at all if I just stroll into the palace and barge into Clary's room unannounced," he said in a mockingly cheery tone.

Isabelle let out a huff then rolled her eyes at him, looking obviously irritated. "You really are thick, aren't you, Jace?" She said dryly. Jace narrowed his eyes at her. An insult was teetering on the edge of his tongue but he was soon cut off by the maid's next words:

"Don't you remember anything about the secret passages in the castle?"

The look which Isabelle was giving him was smug, but for the first time, he didn't fault her for it. Isabelle had every right to be smug, and him a dumbfounded fool.

 _The secret passages?_ Jace's eyes widened as he felt his memory stir, and he took an unconscious step back.

He remembered that when he was seven years old, Stephen had ordered for the construction of secret passageways beneath the castle, designed specifically for escapes during emergencies such as an enemy siege on the palace. Each of the entrances to the passageways had been carefully concealed behind the fireplaces of various rooms in the castle, Jace's old room included. And they all led to one place: the stables.

Michael had left Idris by the time they began constructing them…surely Valentine had no clue they even existed?

A lump formed at Jace's throat at the thought of Valentine and the night he attacked Idris. When the fiend's troops had invaded the castle, Jace and his mother had stayed behind instead of using the passageways for the sole purpose they were built, he realized belatedly. But why?

Was it because that in the flurry of Valentine's assault, they had panicked and forgotten that the tunnels even existed? Or was because of his father? Because they loved him too much to leave him behind?

 _We Herondales stick together,_ his mother's voice whispered in his mind, and Jace blinked away tears at the recollection.

If they had somehow managed to escape that night, would their lives have turned out to be like this? Would his mother still be alive? Would he still have been forced into this sickening life, of becoming a gladiator?

And if not, would he and Clary have even met?

"Jace?" Isabelle's— _Izzy's_ voice broke through his thoughts again.

He had no right to be so angry and bitter with her either, Jace realized. His old friend—this girl who was practically his _sister_ —had not meant him any intentional harm; nor had she meant to hurt Clary.

"Hmm?" He asked, his mind still afar.

Izzy gave him an earnest and almost sad-looking smile. "You and Clary are so alike. You're always disappearing into your own minds. It's annoying, really," she laughed.

Jace returned her smile dolefully. "I know," he said.

Sensing that his temper had cooled down, Izzy stepped closer to him. "Do you remember how to get into the passages?" She asked.

Jace instinctively glanced at Wayfarer's stall, where he had only _just_ remembered held the entrance to the aforementioned passages. Camouflaged as a part of the tiled floor, it was practically undetectable, especially when submerged under several layers of thick hay.

His father had been meticulous to a fault—one could not simply pry open the trapdoor by force; the passages could only be accessed by activating a lever that had been disguised as a rusty iron handle amongst the intricate carvings on the wall.

"I remember," he replied distractedly, a distant look in his amber eyes.

He slowly trudged towards the Wayfarer's stall, his eyes intent on the horse that was now staring perceptively at him. The more he thought of it, the more it became impossible for him to dismiss the fact that the horse not only used to belong to him, but that it now belonged to Clary.

Granted, since their first horse-riding experience together, she had switched to riding her mother's horse instead and generously allowed him full rein of Wayfarer, so it was easy to forget that she was the brown horse's new master. But _still_ , Wayfarer was, for all intents and purposes, Clary's. Could it be a divine sign?

 _For God's sake, Jace, you're drawing too many implications from a horse. It's just a coincidence that Wayfarer became Clary's. You can't seriously believe that fate tied you two through a horse,_ the anonymous voice in his head chided him.

 _But out of the twenty other horses in the stables, how did Clary end up with Wayfarer?_ he argued back. _It's too much of a coincidence to actually_ be _a coincidence…_

Jace shook his head. His habit of overthinking everything was proving to be a complete annoyance. None of it was even relevant in this matter. What he should really be thinking about was, how could he have worked in the stables night after night without recalling a single thing about the secret passages?

Of course, eight years of growing up away from home and the amount of head injuries sustained over the course of his training and matches _could_ have made his memory a little dodgy, but it was inexcusable that he should forget something as significant as that.

"Wait, Iz, I don't even know where Clary's room is," he realized aloud. "I can't just suddenly materialize out of a random fireplace in a random room!" It would be extremely unfortunate if the room he happened to appear in belonged to Valentine, he added quietly in his mind—although he did partake in a little humor at the thought. With his father's looks, Valentine would no doubt mistake him for a ghost.

Izzy gave him a devilish smirk. "Oh, trust me, Jace. You know where her room is," she said cryptically, earning a cocked eyebrow from him.

"Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?" He asked grouchily, earning yet another eyeroll from the maid.

"Your old room, Jace Herondale," she said, causing Jace's eyes to widen in surprise. Now, _this_ was too much of a coincidence.

Clary not only owned his old horse but his old room, too? Out of the many, many rooms in the castle, she picked _his_?

"My room?" Jace asked disbelievingly, still barely recovering from his shock.

"Tell me about it," Izzy returned nonchalantly. "When she first moved into the palace, her father let her pick out her own room, and lo and behold, she picked yours! Strange girl, really… It's not like your room had anything interesting in it. It was all white and bare," she commented as she absentmindedly picked at her own fingernails.

Jace narrowed his eyes at her. "Nobody cares about your opinion, Izzy," he said as he deftly unlatched the bolts to Wayfarer's stall.

Swinging the door open, he entered the stall before securing the door behind him again. Wayfarer welcomed his presence with a happy neigh, and moved to nuzzle his head against Jace's neck. "I've missed you, too, buddy," he said to the brown horse.

With a brief pat to Wayfarer's head, he kneeled down against the hay-infested floor, trying to make out where the trapdoor was.

Isabelle stood by the entrance of the stall, leaning her forearms against the door as she watched him, a subtle look of affection and curiosity in her brown eyes. She noticed how Jace was subconsciously biting on the inside of his cheek—an old habit of his that alerted her to his nervousness, but at the same time, showed that he was deep in thought.

He brushed away a good portion of hay from the floor, then stood up and headed towards the wall. This time, he traced his fingers along the grooves and dips of the carvings on the wall, trying to feel for the lever. When he finally found what he had been looking for, he twisted the lever down gently, exhaling a shuddering breath when he heard a definite 'click', followed by the heavy sliding and dragging sounds of the trapdoor as it opened to reveal the passages.

Jace smirked at Izzy, who now held a reminiscent look on her face. He knew what she was thinking about; he remembered a time when he and the Lightwood siblings used to play hide-and-seek in the secret passages. His father hadn't minded at all. Stephen had thought that it was, in fact, an excellent opportunity for Jace to get acquainted with the passages so that he knew his way around it. His mother's reaction, however, had been the exact opposite. She had nagged and scolded his father, but of course, with Stephen's sensible reasoning and his Herondale charm, he had managed to coax her—eventually.

"Here, Jace," Izzy said as she handed him an oil lamp.

Knowing that he would need it if he were to navigate his way around the dark tunnels, Jace retrieved it from her with a grateful smile. Then as if thinking better of it, he pulled her into an unexpected hug.

Isabelle let out a surprised gasp before returning the hug with as much force as she could muster.

When they finally pulled away, Jace noticed how she was forcibly blinking away tears from her eyes.

As if sensing that he was on the verge of teasing her about her girly reaction, she rolled her eyes and shoved him away from her. "Oh shut up, Jace," she snapped, only half-heartedly.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Jace raised his hands up in mock surrender. "Besides, it's perfectly normal to go all teary-eyed. Most women would _kill_ to be in my arms."

Instead of firing a retort, Izzy only let out a wistful sigh. "I've really missed you, Jace," she said, choosing not to comment on his sarcastic response earlier. "This whole time, I thought you were dead. I never meant to say those things to you the other night. I was shocked, and then I just got angry—I lost my parents and Alec, and then _you_ —You've always been like one of my brothers to me and I just felt so betrayed and hurt when you refused to acknowledge any of that. But above all else, I'm so sorry I ruined things for you and Clary. I didn't mean to be so thoughtless—"

"Shh, it's all right, Iz," Jace cut her off. Little by little, he could feel the rough edges of his heart soften at Izzy's apology. "Clary was bound to find out sooner or later. I was kidding myself when I thought that I could hide it from her forever. If anything, I ruined it for myself, but I'm going to fix it the best I can." He placed his free hand on Izzy's shoulder, then planted a soft, brotherly kiss on her forehead. "I'll see you soon."

"Good luck, Jace," Izzy wished him as he started towards the entrance.

At the last second, Jace turned around and spared her a small smile. "And just so you know, Alec's perfectly fine." His words were enough to cause Izzy's eyes to glisten with tears again, but this time, she didn't try to hold them back. They cascaded over her cheeks, displaying her relief and joy. Jace chuckled. "He's been with me at Dumont—a gladiator—and a really good one at that, too," he deigned to explain.

"I should have known," Izzy whispered, mostly to herself. "He's still alive."

Jace nodded. "Don't worry, Iz. Our family will be back together again soon. I'm going to fix this—I'm going to fix _everything_ ," he said with utmost conviction, earning himself a hopeful and encouraging smile from Isabelle. Her dark eyes conveyed everything her mouth didn't: _I believe in you. I trust you._

It was good start…an optimistic start.

With a final wink, Jace lowered himself into the square-shaped hole of the trapdoor, his boots making a soft thud when he landed on the cobbled floor below.

Once he had disappeared into the tunnels, the trapdoor shifted again to become a part of the tiled floor, and with that, erased every last evidence of the secret passages's existence.

* * *

Clary laid on her side amongst the tangled bed sheets, staring out of the window blankly. Rain was pelting down in heavy torrents, making it hard to distinguish anything out in the open. Angry streaks of lightning flashed from afar, accompanied only seconds later by the deafening roar of thunder.

Clary shuddered before wrapping the thick blankets around her tightly, willing the storm away.

It was cold—bitterly cold _._ And she wasn't just referring to the weather either—although, she couldn't remember the last time it had rained this heavily. Actually, now that she came to think of it, she couldn't remember Idris being showered by rain at all since Jace's arrival for the games a month ago.

 _Jace._ Clary's lips quivered at the mere thought of his name.

She had done nothing but miss her gladiator terribly. She missed his face, his nose, his cheekbones, his mouth, and above all, his eyes—those warm golden eyes that always seemed to sparkle when he looked at her; those warm golden eyes that always, without fail, warmed her own heart, filling her and making her feel full and alive; making her feel loved andtreasured.

She missed hearing his laugh, his velvety voice that always seemed to soothe the depths of her own darkened soul and send sparks of electricity flowing through her. God, she missed everything about him; she missed _being_ with him.

Despite knowing who Jace really was, Clary would never bring herself to betray him to her father. She just couldn't—she _wouldn't_ do that to him. Jace was, and would always be, her secret, and _hers alone._ If God so willed it, she would take that secret with her to the grave.

Sighing, she tossed and turned fitfully in her bed, before thrusting her hands in her face and shaking her head. It still baffled her how much she was in love with Jace. _A month._ They had only known each other for a month, and yet, within the short amount of time, he had left a deep, life-changing impact on her. How was any of it even possible?

Before Jace, Clary had never felt that much dependency on anyone before. She had never actually _needed_ anyone to fill the void in her heart—and for a long time, she hadn't minded it at all. Though she had never had the perfect childhood, she had always been 'perfectly content'—or so she had thought—with the way that she was raised to live her life.

She had her brother, Simon, Magnus, Izzy and little Max—and back then, she had believed that having them around had been…sufficient. As long as she had those key people in her life, she would never need anyone else.

But since Jace… Well, she was no longer sure if any of it were enough.

The days that followed their breakup had proven to be more painful than she had ever expected. The void in her chest seemed that much bigger, prominent, as though a festering disease had rooted itself inside of her body and was eating away at her heart, leaving her with nothing more than a massive, aching hole—a hole that she thought had mended itself during her fleeting time with Jace. For days on end, she kept questioning herself the same thing: had she done the right thing by ending their relationship, by leaving Jace?

At the time, it had definitely seemed like the sensible thing to do. After all, if it didn't sit well on her conscience knowing what his parents had done to her father, and vice versa, how could she possibly be with him?

Growing up, she was told to believe that the Herondales were a bunch of lying, distrustful, traitorous thieves bent on their family's destruction. A huge part of her resented them because of the things her father had told her—and at times, she even faulted them for her father's bitterness. She believed that if it weren't for what they did to betray him, he wouldn't have turned into this spiteful man.

Admittedly, she wasn't particularly fond of her father to be making such excuses for his shortcomings, but that was beside the point. What if Jace had lied about loving her? What if he had only been manipulating her, using her to get information about her father, so that he could get revenge on him—on her entire family?

As much as she loved Jace, Clary refused to allow herself to be used by him. She was done with being naïve and so trusting of others. That was her weakness, she realized.

She was too kind, often trying to see the good in others, that her father often chastised her for it. He had told her countless times that her love and compassion for others would be her downfall, that it made her subject to people stepping all over her, using her for their own selfish means.

At first, Clary had thought her father to be condescending and heartless when he insulted her altruism, but now… _now_ she knew that her father had probably meant her well.

After all, what good was it to spare others the benefit of the doubt, only to be stabbed in the back?

Plus, her father knew what he was talking about. He had been betrayed by the Herondales—by his own adopted _brother_ , no less. As a father, he was probably just looking out for her so that she wouldn't have to experience the same cruel fate as him.

No father would ever want his own child to suffer...right?

Sure, Valentine was as cold and brutal as any _strict_ and _wary_ parent could be, but perhaps, it was the only way he knew how to act—to show her that he cared, and to show her that he only held her best interests at heart. And to think, that she had to go through all this heartbreak with Jace just to realize that her father had been _protecting_ her this whole time.

 _To love is to destroy_ —who better to understand the meaning behind those words than her own father? Valentine had loved Celine, and she had destroyed his heart when she had betrayed him for another man. Clary couldn't imagine being in love with Jace and then having him to leave her for another woman after he had gotten what he wanted.

She did the right thing, breaking up with him…right?

But then, why did it hurt so much?

 _In time…it'll get better in time. It's only been four days…these things take time to heal,_ she tried coaxing herself.

But even without having to seek out the deepest corners of her heart, she already knew that she doubted it. She loved Jace far too much to just move on from him and to forget him just like that. He wasn't just some momentary fling or a distraction, or an escape from her father. Jace meant so much more to her than any of that.

Even if she did marry another man—which she was likely to do at her father's behest—Clary didn't think that she would ever be capable of giving him her whole heart, because in truth, her heart was no longer her own. Her heart belonged to only one man—to Jace, and _only_ to Jace.

Any other man she would marry—a stranger—could only hope to claim her body, but never her heart, and never her soul.

Clary sighed, pushing the thought away from her mind. She didn't need to burden herself with her arranged marriage just yet…although if she were being completely honest with herself, it was growing increasingly hard not to think about it—or the fact that with each passing day, she was steadily inching closer and closer to her wedding date.

 _Ugh, weddings._

Most women would probably get jitters and excited at the prospect of 'the big day', but in Clary's case, the thought nauseated her and made her palms grow unusually sweaty.

She could already imagine how much of a circus it would be, what with her father's obsession with showmanship. Even if it were something as sacred as a matrimony, she knew that he wouldn't mind splurging on a lavish celebration. It wouldn't be for her sake, but _his_. Valentine always had to look good, even at the expense of his own children. He truly was an egoistical, self-centered, self-serving man…

 _Oh, stop it! Stop!_ Clary rolled over onto her side before the bitter thoughts could drag her further down the pit of anger and despair. It irked her how conflicted she was over her feelings about her father. It was as if her heart and mind couldn't agree—though the lines were just as blurred where the two were concerned.

She didn't know if it was her head or her heart that was repeatedly making up excuses to justify her father's unorthodox methods of raising her; that kept telling her that despite the lack of warmth in their relationship, he deserved every bit of love, loyalty and gratitude from her. Likewise, she didn't know which of the two was telling her that for those same reasons that made her even question her own feelings, it justified her every right to hate him.

Ultimately, it was _her father_ that made her end her relationship with Jace, wasn't it?

Even if he wasn't aware of the Herondale son's return—of how deeply in love she was with said boy—Valentine was the main instigator behind their separation. She had ended everything because she knew her father would never, _ever_ approve of it.

Clary sighed, knowing that in the process of her thinking, she had contradicted herself over her reasons for leaving Jace yet again. So now it wasn't because she was looking to protect her heart or that Jace couldn't be trusted, but because she did it to protect him?

 _And me_ , she thought, albeit a bit unsurely. _Out of self-preservation, I did it for me, too._

The idea of her and Jace—two star-crossed lovers—was devastatingly romantic, but if their situations were anything remotely similar to Pyramus and Thisbe, then they were destined to be a tragedy. She had no qualms that if her father ever knew about them, he wouldn't hesitate to have Jace executed in the least humane way possible. And since fraternizing with the enemy was practically an act of treason, Clary's fate was sure to follow Jace's.

She did them both a favor by granting them their only means of escape; they had to erase themselves from each other's lives completely—to move on from their ludicrous dreams and to forget.

 _Oh, but how does one simply forget someone as unforgettable as Jace Herondale?_

Even when she only knew him as Shadowhunter, he was already a haunting presence in her mind, an inescapable phantom. And now that she had knew him, _loved_ him…

Clary let out a quiet, mirthless laugh, the sound escaping her disused throat as a scratchy rasp. _He's never going to leave me alone, is he?_ She thought to herself as she stared openly at the heavy rain outside.

Even the mere sight of the rain made her think of him. She couldn't help but wonder, was he miserable and moping around like she was? Was he feeling cold like she was? He must be, with the meager amount of clothing that he had on… Clary didn't think that they provided him with any blankets at the cells either.

 _He must be freezing_ , she couldn't help but think worriedly.

Then, bittersweet realization struck her—

Jace was working in the stables right now. In other words, he wasn't as far away from her as she had initially thought.

Knowing that tiny bit of information made her heart clench with a stronger, more intense longing. She could literally run to him if she wanted to; the distance wasn't a problem.

Oh, just the thought of running into Jace's arms…to have him tell her that he loved her… She had no doubt that just being in his presence would instantly soothe her and relieve her of her pain. She was his golden boy for more reasons than just his golden looks, after all.

 _Then why did you push him away, you stupid girl? He told you that he loved you but you were too selfish to listen to him. You broke his heart…and your own. You deserve every bit of pain that you're feeling,_ her own conscience rebuked her.

Clary felt a stray tear trickle down her cheek, then travel further down her neck. Why couldn't have Jace been a different person entirely? Why couldn't he just be a prince from another kingdom? Why couldn't he be anyone else but a Herondale?

 _Oh, for God's sake! Why should it even matter if Jace were a Herondale?_ Her conscience's sharp voice returned. _Why such a big fuss over something as minuscule as a name? A name is just a name. It isn't anything tangible, anything that can be touched or felt! What harm can a name possibly do to you? Look at yourself! You're a Morgenstern—Morgensterns aren't exactly beacons of virtue either, are they? You certainly aren't one._

Clary buried her face into her pillow and let out a scratchy scream. The idea of suffocating herself and ending all of her misery once and for all suddenly became an appealing thought, especially when she weighed the pros and cons in her head. Nothing good was in store for her here—she didn't have her mother, she didn't have Luke, she didn't have… _him._

But, if she _left_ , there was a possibility that she could reunite with her mother. There was a chance that she could be happy again.

 _Don't be stupid,_ she heard Jace's voice chide her. _You're not a coward either. Are you really going to kill yourself? You have your brother. You have your friends. And you_ do _have_ me _. The only thing in the way of your happiness is your stubbornness. Why do you insist on punishing us for our parents' mistakes?_

Clary shook her head furiously to dispel the disconcerting thoughts and _his voice_. She needed to stop thinking. She needed a distraction—a tangible one—something she could hold, to calm her, to ease her of her pain, to numb it. God, she just needed to stop feeling!

In the midst of her scatterbrained mind, an idea whizzed through her head. Clary slowly sat up from her bed, then reached over her bedside table. She pulled open the top drawer and retrieved the tiny toy soldier that laid there—the toy soldier that she now believed might have been Jace's.

Holding it tightly in her small fist, she brought it close to her chest, where her heart was beating in tandem with the heavy downpour outside, then laid back down on her back once more.

As she brushed her thumb over the surface of the toy soldier, her mind drifted to the time when she had first moved into the Idrisian palace from Alicante. Clary cradled the toy lovingly against her chest, welcoming the flashback as if it were a part of Jace's arms. But instead of despair, she felt peace.

 _"Clary, sweetheart, why don't you go pick out your room?" Her mother said as she smoothed down the frizz of Clary's windblown hair._

 _She looked as tired as nine-year-old Clary felt, though the girl couldn't exactly say that she blamed her mother. They had been traveling for hours without any breaks in between—and while the carriage was opulently made to suit her father's royal tastes, it wasn't the most comfortable thing to sit in. Clary, though only a child, could feel her body aching all over from their long journey._

 _Jocelyn then turned to smile at her sixteen-year-old son. He was a great deal taller than his sister, and just over four inches taller than their mother._

 _"You too, Jon," she said._

 _"Really? We can choose our own rooms?" Her brother was grinning at their mother from ear to ear. He suddenly frowned, looking wary. "Wouldn't Father mind? I had thought for sure that he would be assigning us our rooms."_

 _"No," their mother said. "He told me so himself—the both of you are old enough to decide on your own rooms. As long as you stay away from the northern wing of the palace—you are banned from venturing there unless invited by your father." She gave them a stern warning look. Both siblings pursed their lips as if holding back a stream of unwelcome questions. They knew better than to ask too much about their father and his…_ dealings _. He was a private man who only cared to share things if he thought them to be deserving—which wasn't very often. He was also an extremely difficult man to please._

 _Jocelyn's expression softened. "Go on, children. I'll send the servants to fetch you when it's time for dinner. For now, feel free to explore—choose whichever room that you like. I have to go join your father in the throne room."_

 _"I'll keep an eye on baby sis," Jonathan smirked as he ruffled Clary's hair, deliberately annoying her._

 _"I'm not a baby," she seethed._

 _"Hush, little one. Mother and I are speaking."_

 _"Mom!"_

 _"All right," their mother interrupted their bickering before it could intensify, chuckling rather amusedly at them. "Jon, keep the teasing to a minimum. Clary," she looked down at her daughter and patted her cheek affectionately, "Try not to maim your brother."_

 _"Hey!" Jonathan protested._

 _Their mother sent her a conspiratorial wink before she strode off down the hallway, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. Clary and Jon watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from their sight, then turned to face each other, eyes narrowed in unison._

 _Clary poked her tongue out at her brother—an unladylike gesture—before taking off in the opposite direction of the hallway, her brother hot on her heels. Inwardly, she knew that her father would be furious if ever saw her running around and giggling like an undisciplined child—but he wasn't exactly there to see anything, was he?_

 _As she was running, Clary spotted a crystal vase atop one of the mahogany tables lined against the wall; it was half-filled with water but devoid of any flowers._

 _She slowed her pace momentarily, hand reaching for the vase, then with an unforeseen timely reflex, turned around and doused her brother with the water. Her aim was surprisingly perfect—it hit her brother directly in the face, causing him to splutter and cease his chasing. It gave Clary the perfect opportunity to outrun him._

 _"Oh, you're in trouble now, Clarissa Adele!" She heard her brother shout as she rounded a corner, effectively leaving him in the dust._

 _Hearing his footfalls pick up again, Clary put on an extra burst of speed and threw open the door to the nearest room, closing it shut behind her as quietly as possible._

 _Not even a minute later, she heard her brother's footsteps running down the corridor; he swiftly passed the room she was holed up in, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief. There was no way that she was leaving anytime soon, so she allowed herself to tread a little further into the room, eyes wandering across the space curiously._

 _It was huge, though bland and white, and contained only the barest of essentials. But in spite of its lack of lustre, it was strangely beckoning her to come closer, as if there was a spirit luring her in. Surprisingly, Clary didn't feel thrown off by it at all._

 _On the contrary, despite the lack of personal possessions alluding to the previous owner's identity, she felt a connection of sorts stir somewhere deep within her. She liked this room—she knew that she wanted it to be her new bedroom._

 _The white walls even allowed her the excellent opportunity to paint something—murals of sunsets and other fantasy landscapes. And she could always bring in other forms of décor to spruce it up. Her mother would definitely help._

 _As she ran her hand along the length of the smooth, wooden bedframe, Clary smiled to herself, envisioning a new quilt thrown over the expanse of the bed—maybe a forest green colour or…a rich gold? She quite liked the idea of having golden sheets; it would be a nice change to have in a new home._

 _But her smile soon dropped when she heard her brother's advancing footsteps—loud and thunderous like an elephant on stampede. Jonathan had always owned a heavy foot, which was advantageous in Clary's case: it helped warn her of his approach ahead of time._

 _Acting quickly, she scrambled to hide underneath the bed, grateful for the long white sheets that easily hid her from any trespasser's view. Making sure to quieten her breathing, she perked her ears and listened, stiffening when she heard her brother call her name. It was in the midst of her waiting when something else—a dusty wooden trinket—caught her eye._

 _Instantly, Clary's attention was diverted to the trinket; she didn't hesitate to reach for it and curled the item gently around her hands._

 _It was only slightly bigger than the size of her own palm, and she realized belatedly, that it was a toy soldier._

 _Now, being a traditional girl, Clary wasn't usually fascinated by toys that were made for boys, but something about this toy soldier just screamed 'different'. It even had golden eyes, which was strange. She had only ever seen toy soldiers—her brother's—with blue-painted eyes._

 _It wasn't the best piece of toy soldier she had ever laid eyes on; though expertly carved, it had a slightly sloppy paintjob, as if it were the work of a child's._

 _Clary smiled to herself, deciding that if no one came forward to inquire of the toy, then she would claim it as hers._

As she stumbled out of the memory, Clary was still smiling. She ran her eyes over every small detail of the toy soldier, feeling a newfound appreciation for it.

To others, it might seem like a worthless piece of junk, but to her, the toy soldier was far more valuable than any piece of fine jewelry that her father could ever gift her. It was special—imperfect and rough around the edges—but embedded with history and sentiment.

Fleetingly, she wondered if Jace had made the tiny toy soldier himself. It was a comforting thought, so she held onto it, grateful that she had something of his. She brought the toy soldier up to her lips and kissed it gently, longingly.

She knew she had to move on from her golden gladiator soon, but for now, she just wanted a little bit of him to hold on to. She didn't want to let go just yet.

With the toy soldier wrapped in her hand, Clary slowly drifted off into sleep, her unconscious mind occupied by dreams of a golden-haired boy and his army of toy soldiers.

* * *

There were only two possible adjectives to describe the secret passageways, which were 'dark' and 'musty'.

Of course, nothing stank as much as ancient dungeons that were cursed with the acrid smell of blood and rotting human flesh, but this was a close third—the second being the nasty body odour that constantly lingered in prison cells. For all his experiences in life, he was a truly _fortunate_ man.

He rolled his eyes at his own sarcastic thoughts. Unpleasant smells always had a way of tampering with his temper.

Raising the oil lamp close to his face, he squinted against the insufficient lighting in hopes of making out his current whereabouts. He had been in the passages for a far longer time than he had hoped—probably close to twenty minutes now.

The task of navigating through the passageways hadn't been as easy as he had thought. Through time, his recollection of the tunnels had dimmed into faint memory.

But his stars were shining brightly tonight. He grinned to himself when he recognized the particular secret door he had been looking for. The one that led to Clary's—and his old—bedroom. It was the only door marked with a white chalk, displaying a faded 'X'.

Biting his lip, Jace held his breath when his hand found the lever. He pulled it down tentatively, his hand shaking slightly. On cue, the secret door opened with a soft grumble, sliding to reveal the entrance into the room.

Deciding to abandon the oil lamp for now, Jace dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl through the fireplace. He paused momentarily at the hearth to reach for the other lever concealed within the firebox, then twisted it once in a counter-clockwise direction to obscure the secret door from sight. He then continued to crawl his way out of the fireplace, hesitating when he got to his feet.

The moment he was standing, his amber eyes darted about wildly before they finally adjusted to the darkness of the room. As soon as they had refocused, his gaze instantly landed on Clary.

She was asleep on her— _his_ old bed in a curled up position, thick layers of blankets draped around her small frame to keep her warm.

With a silent, deep intake of air into his lungs, Jace made his way towards Clary, his boots treading lightly and unhurriedly against the hardwood floor. Upon reaching the bedside table, he halted, his breath catching in his throat as he was treated to a clearer view of his beautiful sleeping princess.

She was lying down on her side facing him, her fiery-red hair fanned out across her pillow, with a few strands covering her delicate face. Her chest was rising and falling at a slow, rhythmic pace, and there was an unmistakable rapid eye movement beneath her eyelids—a clear indication that she was dreaming.

As Jace continued to watch Clary, entranced by the state of peacefulness that she was in, she began to snuggle her face adorably into her pillow—as if she were cuddling with it—her lips simultaneously twitching into a small smile. At that, he couldn't help but smile a little to himself as he curiously wondered over what she was dreaming about.

Then, to his surprise, she let out a soft whisper of a name, _his_ name—"Jace"—and he bit down hard on his bottom lip to withhold a gasp from escaping him.

Clary was dreaming about him, Jace thought happily, a giant grin on his face. But before he could get ahead of himself, the princess's eyelids began to flutter, and all of a sudden, her emerald green eyes were staring directly into his aureate ones.

* * *

Shock. Happiness. Bewilderment. Shock. Those were the emotions that coursed through Clary as she stared wide-eyed at Jace.

The blankets fell from her body as she bolted upright in bed, the tiny toy soldier clutched in her hand dropping amongst the tangled bed sheets.

Against her heart's true desire, she edged away from him, her body leaning flushed against the headboard as she gave him a look of pure astonishment.

How long had he been standing there watching her sleep? The question was poised on the tip of her tongue, but Clary found herself at a complete loss of words.

Meanwhile, Jace's eyes were steadily raking over her body, taking in her attire—or lack thereof. Her sleepwear showed a lot more skin than any of her clothes usually did, particularly her arms and collarbone area. Jace, for all his gentlemanliness, couldn't help his body's reaction to the sight.

A rush of heat surged through Clary under his appraising gaze, and she hastily grabbed at the blankets to cover herself up.

"Jace," she hissed, looking flushed. She cursed her voice for sounding so wobbly. "What are you doing _here_?" She asked hoarsely, dismissing the initial feeling of elation at his presence.

She watched as Jace's face crumpled with disappointment at her rejection, but willed herself not to cave in to defeat. There was no point in rejoicing. She couldn't be with him— _they_ couldn't be together.

"I know I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry," he said, looking flustered and slightly ashamed. "But Clary," she winced at the sound of her name as it rolled off his tongue, "I needed to see you. We… _I_ need to talk to you. Please." Clary looked down, unable to keep her eyes on him. She hated it every time he pleaded with her. She hated the imploring look in his eyes, the agony in them. He made it so difficult for her to not fall for him.

"Why won't you look at me?" He asked, sounding as hurt as she felt.

"You're not supposed to be here, Jace," Clary sighed, blatantly avoiding his question. She pursed her lips, willing her glass heart to stay intact. When her eyes met his again, they were masked with cold steel. "We're over. There's nothing more to say. Nothing will make her change my decision. It's… _done_." Her voice cracked at the word, betraying her lie.

Whether he was aware of it or not, Jace stepped closer to her and sat down on the vacant side of her bed. Clary didn't move, but held her breath as the distance between them grew…less. They weren't touching, but she could feel the heat and tension radiating from his body. It unnerved her. Her hands gripped at the sheets she was clutching to her chest, her knuckles turning white from strain. Despite herself, she wanted to touch him so much, wanted to be reassured that he _did_ love her.

"Don't say that, Clary. I—You—" He furrowed his eyebrows together, his mouth opening and closing as he fought to string together a coherent sentence.

"You see?" Clary shook her head, smiling humorlessly at herself. "Even you can't deny it. Nothing you say can change anything, Jace." _We're over_ , she silently added in her head.

"No," he finally said. Clary gave him a forced hard look, but instead of the desperate-filled eyes he had given her before, he was looking at her just as sharply—if not more. "You've said everything you wanted to say to me that night, but you didn't let me explain a single thing. Now it's my turn to talk. You can't just tell me that it's over until you let me try—"

"Try what? To butter me up with more lies? To make me fall in love with you and then let you break my heart again? What?" She asked him exasperatedly. "I have already given you more than you deserve. So what more do you want from me?"

"TO EXPLAIN!" He shouted angrily.

They stared at each other, both looking equally shocked by his outburst, before Jace looked away sheepishly. His hands were clenched into fists and his jaw ticked with embarrassment and rage, though Clary realized it wasn't because he was completely angry at her—he was angry at himself for losing his temper.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice at you. I'm sorry," he said, sounding contrite.

Clary's eyes instantly softened as she continued to look at Jace, studying him. Everything about him was familiar despite the short amount of time they had been together. She had memorized him down to each curve of his jawline; to the tiny dimple that appeared in his left cheek when he smiled— _really_ smiled.

That dimple was nowhere to be seen now. Instead, Jace looked more like the gladiator she had first met in the market—guarded, angry, but achingly vulnerable at the same time.

She didn't miss the way his eyes appeared to be more sunken, or how his cheeks had hollowed, contrasting the image of the boy she knew—the boy she _loved_ —and saw only four days ago. He looked like a man grieving and in pain.

So unless Jace was an extremely talented actor, Clary knew that he hadn't been lying about his feelings towards her, at least. Her leaving him had damaged him.

She looked down and noticed with a start that his knuckles were badly bruised and mangled with scabs. Her first instinct was to reach out and touch him, but she held back at the last second, knowing that if she did, it would tear apart the last strings of her self-restraint.

"What happened to your hands, Jace?" She asked him, quietly.

His jaw ticked again as unmistakable anger and hurt flashed in his eyes. "I beat someone." His tone was flat and emotionless.

"Who?" Clary's heart beat rapidly in her chest as she awaited his answer.

To her disappointment, Jace let out an annoyed sigh. "Who cares _who_? Are you ever going to give me a chance to speak my side of the story?" He looked at her, and she could see the fumes of his anger return. "You ask me all of these impertinent questions, but you keep avoiding the one I'm actually dying to answer. _Please_ , _Clary._ I don't know how many times I have to actually beg you. I ask for nothing but the chance to _explain_."

"Okay," she whispered.

"What?"

"Okay," Clary repeated, biting her lip. The stubborn part of her still wanted to refuse Jace, but the one whose guilt grasped her in its vice-grip demanded that she listen. "Say what you want to say. I'm listening."

Jace was still staring at her in disbelief.

"Hurry up before I change my mind," she said shakily.

Jace blinked before clearing his throat. She could see that her compliance had thrown him off a little, as if he had expected her to send him away—again—but he quickly composed himself. When he finally dived into his explanation, he sounded solemn.

"The day we met at the market, the first time we met, you told me about your father and my parents—what happened between them years ago," he looked to her for confirmation.

Clary nodded without looking at him, urging him to keep him going. She couldn't risk taking another look into his golden eyes. They were dangerous, like a rotating mass of water threatening to pull her in. She couldn't be allow herself to be pulled in.

"Clary, you need to know—whatever your father has told you to believe, they're not true," Jace said carefully.

She didn't respond, though the prickling feeling in her heart—the one that pressed her to believe that her father was a liar—came back with full force.

But her self-denial, powered by her anger and desperation, was even stronger. She didn't _want_ to believe him.

As if realizing this, Jace spoke faster—more urgently. "Clary, my parents were innocent. Your father really did steal the kingdom's funds to sponsor the games in Alicante. That's why my father reported his actions to his parents. My mother—my mother used to be courted by your father, but she never had any real feelings for him. He was brutal and harsh to her—that's the reason why she left him to be with my father."

 _No,_ Clary stubbornly thought. _No. It can't be true. He's lying to me again._

She glared at Jace angrily. "That's enough," her words tasted bitter on her own tongue. "When you said you wanted to explain, I expected an _explanation_ —not another lie about how my father is liar," she said through gritted teeth.

Jace stared at her in disbelief. "God, what is it going to take—I'm _not_ lying to you, Clary!"

Clary held her hand up and scoffed. "No! I don't see the reason why my own father would lie to me. I'm his blood, _his kin_ ," she recited the words as if they were being mouthed to her by another person.

She felt like a puppet. _She_ was the liar—but she didn't want to admit that her pretense was real. She didn't want to believe that there was nothing redeemable about her father.

"He's not the world's most perfect father, but he _wouldn't_ lie to me. If anything, he's just trying to _protect_ me from people like _you_." _Lies, lies, lies!_

Jace shook his head, as if he had known that she would react that way. It only fueled her irrational anger. "Clary, I know you have a hard time trusting me—"

"And I have every right to," she cut in.

"—But I'm not lying, I promise," he said pleadingly.

Clary's glare didn't falter despite her heart's protests. She really _was_ Valentine's daughter, she realized. "Jace, I have no reason to believe you," she said coldly.

This time, Jace only sighed, a look of sorrow and defeat on his face. "You're right. I haven't exactly given you a reason to believe in anything I say," he said dejectedly.

Then to her own surprise, he reached out and gripped her hand in his, causing a wave of goosebumps to rise on her skin. Clary didn't even have time to mask her gasp before it escaped her—nor did she have time to curse herself for stumbling. She was just blank to everything the moment his warm skin touched hers.

"But Clary, if I mean anything to you, _anything at all_ , then you'd at least do me a favor by finding out the truth for yourself—and I don't mean by asking your father," he let out a dry chuckle, "I mean _really_ looking for evidence about your father's past activities. _Please_."

It took a lot of willpower but Clary finally—reluctantly—retracted her hand from Jace's. His expression dropped, the same way her heart plummeted at the loss of his touch.

"Hey," she said softly, unable to stand his sad look. "I won't make any promises, but I'll…I'll try."

A smidge of hope reentered Jace's golden eyes as he smiled at her. "That's all I'm asking for," he said gratefully.

Clary smiled a little, too, until she remembered something far too important to ignore.

"Wait, Jace," her eyes widened in panic, " _How did you get in here?" She_ asked him.

She couldn't believe that she hadn't even given it a thought at first—that she had been too consumed by surprise and happiness and a tirade of other emotions to not question _it_.

The ghost of his old smirk resurfaced at her question. "Secret passageways," he said, as though the answer was obvious.

Clary's eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"The fireplace over there," Jace said, pointing to the unlit fireplace, "It's one of the many secret doors that lead to the underground passageways my father had built. They all lead to one main exit, or entrance, however you see it: the stables."

Clary's mouth fell agape and she uttered a simple, "Oh."

Jace chuckled at her reaction. "I believe your father doesn't even have a clue of its existence," he said, humor laced in his voice.

But Clary wasn't really paying attention to him anymore. She was staring at the fireplace unblinkingly, having a hard time to wrap her mind around the fact that this whole time, there had been a secret door in her _fireplace_.

"This used to be my bedroom, you know," Jace told her, breaking the silence.

She turned to find him looking at her, the smile he wore on his face wistful and sheepish. She looked down at her bed sheets, blushing slightly.

"I kind of figured that out myself earlier," she said softly.

"Oh? How'd you find out?" He asked, a blond eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

Clary sifted her hand through her bed sheets, and retrieved the toy soldier that she had fallen asleep with earlier. She lifted it up gingerly, making sure that Jace could see it.

"I found this when I first moved into your room when I was ten. I didn't know your parents had a son until _now_. I had assumed then that it had belonged to one of the servants' children. But since no one asked about it, I kept it for myself. It belongs to you, doesn't it?" She asked him with a bright twinkle in her emerald eyes.

Jace nodded as he fingered the toy with a reminiscent look on his face. "I made it myself. Well, my father helped a little, but it was mostly me," he said proudly.

"I figured," she chuckled. "The paint-job on this toy is just so sloppy that it couldn't have possibly been the work of an adult or a professional," she joked, and for a moment, it was almost as if nothing bad had ever come in between them. It was rather comforting, actually. Their situation was far from being a simple one, but the chemistry between them was effortless and natural—unforced.

Jace was smiling at her in a way that made the dimple in his left cheek appear, though the moment shared between them didn't last as long as Clary had hoped. His eyes unconsciously drifted to the floor, and all of a sudden, he blanched and froze.

"Jace? Jace, what's wrong?" Clary asked him, sounding concerned. She had never seen Jace look quite as fearful as he did now, and it made her feel terrified and confused as to why he was acting that way. She braved herself to touch him, and placed her hand on the left side of his face.

"Jace?" She tapped his cheek lightly.

But Jace didn't look at her. He only continued to stare at the floor, as if he were witnessing the terrible ghosts of his past.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard him speak.

" _Mom…mom, please don't leave me. Don't go_ ," he whimpered in a small voice. His body was shaking furiously as tears streamed down his cheeks.

Clary quickly moved onto her knees in front of him, trying to get him to look at her. She cupped his face in between her tiny hands, calling his name repeatedly, but he remained oblivious to her. His body was still shaking with silent sobs and he was repeatedly calling out for his mother.

At her wits' end, she bent down and kissed him forcefully on the lips, hoping that it would wake him up from whatever nightmare he was having.

* * *

Jace didn't know what was happening. One moment he was joking around and smiling at Clary, and then the next thing he knew, he was staring at the floor—at the exact spot where Valentine had killed his mother eight years ago—completely blacked out.

He felt powerless as memories of the cursed night flashed right before his eyes, rendering him a helpless victim much like his ten-year-old self.

Fortunately, escape came before the memories could sink their claws into him deeper and refuse to let him go. It was almost like a miracle!

Just as he blinked open his eyes again, he found Clary's lips on his, her kisses hard and forceful—urgent, desperate, hungry—unlike anything they had ever dared to venture before. It was everything he had, deep down, yearned for since the night she ended their relationship. Certainly, their courtship hadn't been a physical one from a start—for a fact, they'd had a mutual agreement to be as chaste as possible in their interactions—but what was a man to do when he was so deeply and utterly in love, and for the first time ever?

The feeling of her soft, pliable mouth against his was like an elixir that reignited his withering fire—he felt _alive_ again. Jace couldn't think. Without hesitating, he kissed her back, loving how their lips moved against each other so perfectly, like a well-rehearsed dance. His fingers curiously explored her sides, his touch careful and light, resembling a skilled artist's hands—an odd comparison to use in this case, since Clary was the artist between the two.

As their kisses grew deeper, Clary's soft, tiny hands moved of their own accord, caressing his arms and shoulders, tracing a path up his neck, before her own fingers finally locked themselves in his hair, just like they did the first time they kissed. But as suddenly as their moment of passion began, it ended, surprisingly with Jace being the first to pull away.

As they sat, their faces inches away from each other, the young man realized that they were both breathing heavily—more so than few other times they had kissed—and their eyes were clouded with the unmistakable look of longing and love. Even so, traces of their last encounter, that had left the gladiator in a shameful and regretful position, and the princess in a harsh and hasty retreat, still haunted his memory. It was almost like a sensible slap to his face. As much as he missed her—as much as he intuitively _craved_ for her—he knew he would never allow himself to slip again, not when he knew how much it could hurt the both of them. Besides, he would never disrespect Clary—or for that matter, himself—by rejecting his self-restraint. He was taught better than that; to know better, to _do_ better.

Looking at Clary now, Jace felt the urge to apologize, but instead, something else entirely came tumbling out of his mouth.

"I love you, Clary," he breathed, never breaking their eye contact. "I hope you know that. I hope you know no matter what happens, my feelings for you will never change." He threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand up to his lips.

"I…" Clary hesitated, as if sobering from their kiss. "I love you, too, Jace," she admitted, causing his golden eyes to light up with a luminous glow— _with hope_. "But we can't be together. We just can't. I'm… I'm getting married the day after the games, remember? And anyway, what you said the other day, to Izzy—It's all true isn't it? My father was the one who killed your parents?" She asked, and he responded with a dismal nod.

"That's one of the reasons why I can't be with you. How can you possibly love me or even look at me without thinking about what my father did to you and to your parents? I just can't—" She ripped her hand away from his and turned away from him.

"Clary," he called her. "Clary, look at me," he said, pleading with her to face him.

He saw as her bottom lip quivered before she finally turned around to face him. Her eyes were shining with tears again and the mere sight made his heart twinge. But at the same time, if Jace were being completely honest with himself, he was a little miffed that after everything he had told her, she remained obstinate, doubtful of him.

"My sweet Clarissa…regardless of who you are—who _we_ are—my feelings for you will never change. You are not your father— _you know that_. His blood may run through your veins, but none of that matters to me. Blood doesn't define who you are, and it shouldn't dictate your decisions of whether or not you want to be with me. You didn't kill my parents, so you shouldn't feel guilty for what Valentine did," he said with more assertion than he ever thought capable of possessing.

But Clary wasn't swayed. Instead, the conflict in her eyes intensified, as did the frown on her face. "I still don't know, Jace," she said in an exasperated tone. "All of this is just confusing me. I still don't know the whole truth. I want to believe you but at the same time, I don't."

He couldn't help the scowl that overtook his features at her partial admission that she didn't want to believe him. If she loved him, then why wouldn't she want to believe that he was telling her the truth?

"It's bad enough knowing that my father murdered your parents," she clarified. "I'm not sure I want to believe the rest of the things you claimed he did. I'm not sure I want to believe that he had really sabotaged his own chances of inheriting the throne by stealing money from his own father's kingdom just for the stupid games."

Jace could tell that even Clary knew she was on the losing end of the argument—her own reasons were weak, inadequate—but Clary wasn't anything if not infuriatingly stubborn.

"I want to believe that my father is a _good_ man in his own way—that even though he killed your parents, he had a _good reason_ for it."

Jace sucked in a sharp breath at Clary's statement, feeling as if she had inflicted a strong punch to his gut and winded him. By the look of regret on Clary's face, he knew that she, too, had realized what a huge mistake she had made—but it still was not enough to calm his boiling anger.

"Good reason?" He spat the words as if they were the foulest curse he had ever heard or uttered. "What—what in _God's name_ could possibly be a good reason for murdering my parents?" He snarled, causing the girl he loved to wince.

Clary whimpered as tears sprang to her emerald green eyes. "Jace, I didn't mean it—"

"But you still said it," Jace retorted, undeterred by her remorse. "I'm not trying to be disrespectful towards you, Clary, but _think_." He tapped the side of his head aggressively. "Even if my father _did_ frame Valentine, and my mother left him for my father, those aren't good enough reasons to justify his actions. _Put yourself in my shoes, Clary._ How would you feel if you had to watch your own mother being raped by another man? How would you feel if you had to witness your own mother getting slaughtered right before your very eyes?"

Clary's chest shook with muffled-sounding sobs. "Jace—"

"No," he cut her off before she could apologize. "Save it, Clary. I don't want to hear it. You know I love you, but I'm not ready to forgive you for saying that. Find out the truth for yourself. And when you're ready to move past this, ready to love me without having any of this interfering with our relationship, you know where to find me."

Jace clenched his jaw. He was angry at Clary and he wanted to show it. He had spared her all the patience he could withstand, but she had crossed a line when she made that insensitive comment.

"But let me make this clear to you so that there are no more secrets between us. Before the games is over, whether you're with me or you're not, whether you'll hate me for it or you don't, _I will overthrow your father_ ," he said, the flames of determination burning in his amber eyes.

Before Clary could even think to stop him, Jace quickly got up and headed for the fireplace. He didn't even turn around to spare her a final glance before entering the secret passages again, this time moving twice as quickly than he had before.

Truthfully, he hated leaving her behind with so much bitterness in his own heart, but a part of him wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine—to feel the pain he had endured because of her constant refusal to listen to reason.

He had done his part and left the ball in her court. Now, it was really up to her to decide if she wanted him or to walk away from him forever.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Ah such a long chapter and so much to digest! What do you guys think of the scene between Jace and Isabelle, AND the Clace scene? I edited quite a fair bit from the original version of this chapter; Old readers, you would probably recognize the new flashback scene between Clary, Jon and Jocelyn (previously Jocelyn was only mentioned in passing, but she was never featured. I decided to write it in because...why not?)_**

 ** _As always, leave me your thoughts :)_**

 ** _Until next time, peace xoxo_**


	14. Chapter 13: Thick As Thieves

**_Author's Note:_**

 ** _Thank you to everyone who has reviewed thus far. I know I haven't been very consistent with my shoutouts, so to be fair to everyone who has reviewed, I'm taking this moment to give you all the shoutouts you deserve. Massive love to: Live Life Out Loud, Tuey101, VMarsLover, Alexxis T. Swan, Lullaby baby rock a by, Jling, 59, BennieWaffles, Helen, Aubrey Kelly, ClaceLover246, SpiritGF1404, Cherish Eaton, Iledid, Mime Herondale, nana, the0tmi0love0sh, pianoheart, Laurinis, PrincessYNeshae, Creativedesigns, ThereAreNoGoodNames, bekbek12, RumpelstiltskinWantsMySanity and all my anonymous guest reviewers. I know I sound like a broken record, but I really do appreciate every single one of you for taking the time to read and review._**

 ** _To every other reader following this story, thank you, too :)_**

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 13: THICK AS THIEVES**

 **October 3, 508 _(part I)_**

"Clarissa _Adele_ Morgenstern, so help me God, if you do not cease this childish behavior of yours and eat your food like a proper, grateful being, I _will_ throw you out of this dining hall," Valentine warned his daughter in a venomous tone as he continued to devour his breakfast.

Clary looked up at her father and stared at him—really, earnestly, stared at him. Not that she was trying to be unnecessarily defiant or rude, but she was trying to see if she could find the answers she had been searching for just by looking at her father's face. Even as he ate, his mouth was twisted into a seemingly permanent scowl, as if he were constantly angry about something—about everything. It was almost as if nothing could please the man, although Clary didn't necessarily need any evidence to back up that particular hypothesis. She was well-acquainted with the fact, being one of those _things_ that always failed to please her father.

Clary tightened her grip on her cutlery, not exactly sure where her feelings stood in the current situation. She was torn in between two sides, between two men. Jace or her father? The man who owned her heart or the man who shared her blood? It was a moral conundrum that threatened to tear into her very soul.

After last night, she knew that she still loved Jace and always would. She also knew that despite her feelings for him, her actions of late conveyed nothing of the sort. She had been unfair and cold towards him. But…she had her _reasons_.

If she sided with Jace, she would be betraying the essence of her upbringing, one which had often stressed upon the importance of filial piety, of honoring one's parents. What sort of a person would that make her if she were to forsake the man who had fathered her? To turn her back on the man whom she was _supposed_ to love unconditionally? Because, yes, despite his shortcomings, Clary loved her father. He came first in her life, way before Jace ever did, therefore, he warranted a chance…to be given the benefit of the doubt… _Right?_

As the thought crossed her mind for the umpteenth time, Clary nearly scoffed aloud at herself. Her attempts of convincing herself of her father's redeeming qualities—if any even existed—had gone past virtuous to downright desperate, and frankly, pathetic. How many chances had she already given her father to do just that, only for him to let her down every single time? Why was she continuously allowing herself to believe in this falsity, allowing herself to be misled by self-denial, when in truth, she was nothing short of disgusted with her father?

 _There,_ she had admitted it, Clary thought with a recurring pinch of guilt that was quickly followed by shame, anger, then finally, resignation.

Love, as pure, unconditional, and deceptively simple as it was, should never be given at the expense of one's _integrity_. The worst thing she could ever do to herself was to use love as an excuse to turn a blind eye to her father's faults, and indirectly condone the crimes he had committed against the nature of humanity, the respect towards life—and love itself.

* * *

No, as much as she wanted to believe that she loved her father, she could no longer refute that her love for him was tainted by repulsion, too. Jace was right, after all. Even if Stephen and Celine Herondale had betrayed her father, what godforsaken right did he have to kill them and to rape Jace's mother? What right did he have to tear Jace's life upside down, to strip away his fundamental rights as a human being and turn him into a slave? Jace, who had only been an innocent boy back then, and whose only alleged crime was his blood relation to the Herondales… What _right_ did her father have to impose _his_ will onto their lives like that?

 _Absolutely none_ , her conscience answered. He had no right.

Unwittingly, Clary began to scowl at the white-haired king, and unfortunately for her, that was when he chose to look up at her.

"Wipe that look off your face, Clarissa, before I slap it off you myself," he growled, his black eyes glinting with barely repressed anger.

Not wanting to draw his unnecessary ire, Clary muttered a quiet apology before looking down at her own plate with a blank and stony expression. Her scrambled eggs and buttered toast were barely touched and undoubtedly getting cold—though she didn't quite mind ignoring the eggs on her plate; she had never been particularly fond of them anyway.

Expelling a silent sigh, she absentmindedly shoved the food around her plate again with her fork, her mind ruminating over what it must be like to be her father. The man was so cold and uncaring all the time. Oftentimes, when he wasn't scowling at her, he was either assessing her or smirking at her deviously, as though he knew something she didn't—which Clary supposed _was_ true. He had always been so secretive, and now that she thought of it, manipulative as well. In complete honesty, just being in the same room as her father, to have his black eyes bore unforgiving holes into her, was enough to make Clary's blood run cold. For as long as she could remember, her father had never once looked at her with love and affection as a father should, even as she had been no more than a child. But strict, patronizing, blunt, callous and ruthless? Oh, her father was all of those things and more…

Clary's fingers clenched around her fork as an unbidden memory assaulted her mind's eye. It had been years—over a decade—since the incident had taken place, and all this time, it had remained tucked away in the deepest corners of her mind, hopefully to never be revisited. Yet as if irony felt it necessary to torture her, she found herself suddenly able to recall it with such vivid clarity.

* * *

 _At five years old, Clary, like most children her age, was the picture of innocence and naivety. It hadn't occurred to her that barging into her father's study—while he was in the midst of some very 'important' business—would turn out to be a very huge mistake._

 _The moment she entered the room, he shot up from his chair, his black, beast-like eyes uninviting, calculating her presence. Several of the buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing a sliver of his bare chest. But_ that _wasn't quite what bothered her. It was the strange woman standing by the side of her father's chair, her red-painted lips smudged and swollen, as if they had been severely bitten._

 _Clary narrowed her eyes at her. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" She asked before she could stop herself._

 _The woman gaped at her, then looked to her father. "Val—"_

 _"Time for you to leave, Anne," her father intoned in his commanding voice. "I will…_ discuss _your needs with you later."_

 _The woman, apparently put out by the rejection, pinned her glare on Clary. "When?" She said in a whiny tone, though the murderous look she was giving the young girl was a different story altogether. "If I leave now, who knows when I'll get to see you next? Come with me."_

 _Her father gave the suggestion no thought. "No," he said, with an edge of finality that brooked no room for argument. "I will find you when the time permits me to. As of this moment, my_ daughter _requires my attention." His gaze was unreadable, but Clary, guileless as ever, beamed at her father's words, having mistaken them for a genuine desire to spend time with her._

Finally, _she thought. Finally, he was going to spend time with her!_

 _"As you wish,_ Milord _," The woman's words were clipped and her expression crisp with anger—but she dared not defy Clary's father. With a huff and another frosty look at the young child, she left the room in a haste of embarrassment._

 _"Who was that, Papa?" Clary asked, curious as ever._

 _Instead of answering her, her father pursed his lips as his dark eyes hardened into two charred coals. "Clarissa," he drawled, "What are_ you _doing here?" He parroted the words she had used on the other woman earlier._

 _As if remembering her original purpose, Clary's eyes brightened. "I made something for you, Papa. Look!" She waved the picture she held in her hands, one she had drawn of their family. Due to her mother's temporary absence, her nurse had been the first one to see it; she had commended her greatly for it, telling her that it was by far her best work. So Clary had eagerly run off after that in search of her father, in hopes of earning the same praise from him._

 _But nothing, it seemed—and especially not a measly drawing—could impress Valentine Morgenstern. He snatched the drawing away from Clary's hands, his lips still tightly pursed together. He stared at the drawing for a long time, his face devoid of any emotion, and then he let out a loud, mirthless laugh that startled Clary._

 _"Papa?" She called him nervously._

 _His eyes instantly shot to hers, and she saw the coldness in them. It scared her._

 _"Allow me to rephrase my earlier question. What did you_ think _you were doing when you came in here, Clarissa?" He asked, his tone measured, controlled._

 _Clary recognized that tone—he usually used it when he was angry. Slowly, she backpedaled away from him, but he gripped her wrist tightly before she could take another step backward._

 _"Where do you think you're going? Answer my question!"_

 _"I…I w-was…Pa—"_

 _"Do not stutter, Clarissa. You're five years old. You're not a baby anymore," he seethed. "By a princess's standards, you should be betrothed to a prince by now. Do you think anyone would want to marry a bumbling fool incapable of coherent speech?"_

 _Tears sprang to Clary's eyes and her bottom lip shook. "No, I…"_

 _"Quiet," he cut her off. "If you can't speak properly, then don't speak at all. You embarrass me. I don't know what grievous sin I've committed for God to give me such a petty and hopeless disappointment for a daughter. And don't call me 'Papa'. You're old enough to call me 'Father', aren't you?" He barked. Clary whimpered when his other hand shot out and spanked her—hard. "Say it. Call me Father. Say it!"_

 _"Y-yes…F-father…"_

 _"There you go, stuttering all over again! Pathetic!" He yelled, pulling at her wrist._

 _He let her go and shoved her away from him all of a sudden, unmoved when she cried out at the pain from her fall. He turned his gaze to the picture as it laid on the floor, scowling at it. He snatched it up, crumpling the sides._

 _Clary wanted to tell him to be careful with it—she had put in a lot of effort into the drawing—but she couldn't speak for fear of stuttering again._

 _"And this," her father held up the drawing, his black eyes flashing dangerously, "It's repulsive! Childish!" He began ripping the paper, not stopping until they had turned into small, unsalvageable shreds. All her hard work gone in the blink of an eye._

 _"ART," he spat out the word with so much scorn, "is nothing more than a waste of time! I detest it! You're better off learning how to be a princess. At the lousy rate you're going, you'll be lucky if you even become a fraction of a good queen," he sneered._

 _"Papa," Clary whimpered, freezing when she realized what a grave mistake she had made._

 _Her father flared his nostrils and huffed, looking like a provoked bull._

 _"Strip," he commanded her._

 _Clary shook her head, not understanding what was going on._

 _Her father let out an angry yell, then charged towards her. Before she could even blink and process what was going on, he was ripping the dress away from her small body, his movements violent and aggressive—much like when he had torn her drawing. She curled herself up into a fetal position, earning herself another hard spank._

 _"Up! GET UP NOW!"_

 _Without another squeak, Clary moved as if her limbs were being maneuvered like a puppet, and knelt down in front of a wooden stool. She wrapped her arms around it and laid her head down on the seat, shivering fearfully. She still didn't understand._

 _Her father shoved a wad of cloth into her face, which she realized belatedly, was mangled piece from her now ruined dress._

 _"Put it into your mouth," he ordered her._

 _Clary did as she was told to do without delay, although she was still confused. Was she supposed to eat her clothes now?_

 _"Don't swallow it, you fool. Now, straighten your back."_

 _Clary did as instructed, and waited. For several minutes, nothing happened—and then, an earsplitting crack came down on her back, bringing with it a shocking amount of pain. Clary screamed, but the sound was muffled by the wad of cloth in her mouth._

 _"Straighten your back!" Her father yelled at her when she arched her back. "Keep it straight!"_

 _His belt came down once more._

 _Then another time._

 _Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten times._

 _Clary's body was convulsing with violent shivers by the time her father finally announced that he was done._

 _"Get out of my sight," he said with no sympathy in his voice._

 _But Clary couldn't move._

 _She was in pain—terrible pain. Her father had never hit her like this before. This was the absolute first time._

 _When a minute had passed and Clary was still lying there motionless on the ground, he snapped and lifted her up by the stomach. She was still whimpering when her father threw open the door and deposited her on the floor outside his study. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shield her naked form._

 _Her father only looked on at her in disgust. "You better be gone by the time I leave this room. I mean it, Clarissa—or it's another whipping for you."_

 _When he slammed the door shut in her face, Clary began to crawl. It was slow, and she knew that it would probably take ages for her to reach her bedroom, but she had no other choice. She couldn't drag herself up to stand on her own two feet, much less walk._

 _It was in this very position that her twelve-year-old brother found her._

 _"Clary! Clary, what are you doing?" Jon asked as he ran towards her._

 _She cowered away from him, ashamed by her state of undress._

 _Jonathan gasped when he realized that she was not only bare, but her back now bore ten new whip marks. He looked at her shocked, worried, then finally, sympathetically. Without another word, he removed the outerwear he had been wearing and draped it around her body. Clary sighed in relief at his gesture._

 _"Come on, baby sis. I'll help you to your room."_

 _Clary wrapped her arms around Jon's neck as he slowly but surely lifted her up into his arms. He was only twelve years old, but a strong one at that. Clary had never been more grateful for her brother's care._

* * *

Stumbling out of her memory, Clary came to realize how her unconscious mind, despite having previously shielded the traumatic experience, had always made sure that she never repeated the same mistake of entering her father's study without a proper…invitation.

Of course, that didn't mean that she was never punished again, _oh no_. On the contrary, the numerous faded welts on her back attested to the fact that she had, on more than one occasion, fallen on the wrong end of her father's temper. There was always something—however minuscule—that he found befitting of a punishment. And each time, he would always pin the fault on her. Clary resented that about him. There was no love in abuse—she saw that now. Her father was nothing more than a bully who drew pleasure from assaulting the weak.

Clary was snapped out of her rumination by the feeling of a soft kick from underneath the table. She barely contained her irritable scowl when she looked up at her brother Jonathan, who nowadays always seemed to look so serious and worried, unlike the joking and carefree brother she was accustomed to. In some ways, his attitude change scared her. She was afraid that her brother would turn into her father one day— _soon_. He was hardly ever around her anymore, and though she was being slightly hypocritical about it, she suspected that he was keeping secrets from her. She loved her brother, but lately, the distance between them had been nothing short of hurtful. Every time she went around looking for him, he seemed to have disappeared from the palace doing God knows what. Did he finally realize what a nuisance she was and was endeavoring to avoid her at all costs?

" _Later_ ," Jonathan mouthed the single word to her.

Pushing aside her insecurities regarding her brother, Clary rolled her eyes at him to feign indifference. " _Great_ ," she mouthed back sarcastically before begrudgingly stabbing at her eggs.

"Jonathan, Clarissa, I have a very important announcement to make," Valentine said in his usual deep, commanding voice.

With heavy reluctance, both siblings looked up at their father in unison, their faces carrying equally emotionless looks. The king cleared his throat once as he smoothed down the fabric of his expensive, tailored tunic—a gesture, that Clary couldn't help but realize, was done out of self-indulgence, that attested to her father's arrogance.

"King Sebastian of Alicante has invited our family to his coronation ceremony in Alicante tonight," he announced with a delighted smirk.

As soon as she registered the words, Clary felt the blood rush from her face _. Sebastian? Ceremony? Alicante? Tonight?_ She diced the words in her head, her fork trembling furiously in her hand. _No!_ _I don't want to go!_

Clary wanted to scream. She didn't want to see that scoundrel of a _man_ —if he could even call himself that—ever again. Once was one time too many.

"He was crowned king of Alicante two months ago," Jonathan spoke up, much to Clary's surprise. His jaw was tense and his green eyes were glowing with anger as they stared unwaveringly into their father's eyes. "Why is he only having his ceremony tonight?" He was holding the fork in his hand so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

Their father leveled Jonathan with a pointed look. "I would have expected you to know better by now, Jonathan. Sebastian's father only passed on two months ago. They were mourning his loss… It would not have been appropriate to carry out a coronation ceremony then. Surely _you_ would understand the need to respect a dead king. If _I_ happened to die tomorrow, would you have a coronation ceremony immediately after my funeral?" He asked him sharply.

But Jonathan didn't seem fazed by it at all. Instead, he was glaring back at their father with just as much intensity. "Don't give me that lie, Father," her brother scoffed, defiance coloring his tone. "I know what you've been up to. Sebastian told me everything the day he visited Idris. You don't intend to let me inherit the throne, so spare me the pain of putting up with your idle theatrics," he growled back at him in an equally acidic tone.

Clary's gaze shifted between her father and her brother, her shock multiplied by the audacity of Jonathan's words, or more aptly put, his accusation against their father. Was any of it true? And if so, was that why he had been acting so strange lately?

"Is that so, Jonathan? Just out of pure curiosity, what _else_ didSebastian tell you?" Their father prodded him with a sly grin.

"Everything you obviously already know, _dear_ _Father_ ," Jonathan answered cynically.

Clary flinched at the likeness between the two men. Before, the one thing that set the two apart was Jonathan's warmth, compassion and humor—and their mother's green eyes, of course. But now, with his sudden defiance and hostility, the way he glared at their father as the latter's face turned red with rage, she felt as if she was seeing double. _Two Valentines._

"I don't need to waste my time or breath telling you things that you're already well aware of," Jonathan continued. "Everything you ever told Clarissa and I were a lie. _You_ are nothing more than a common fraud," he sneered with obvious resentment.

Before any of them could react, their father had already risen from his seat, a look of pure lividity on his face. He shot forward with a ferocious growl, his large hand seizing the scruff of Jonathan's neck. Within moments, the dining hall erupted with boisterous noise as chairs were scraped and knocked over to the ground, a trail of cutleries and dishes following the wreckage in similar fashion.

Jonathan fought against their father's hold, but the older man—backed by years of experience, and known for his notorious temper and untamed aggression—was matchless. He didn't even bat an eye when he pummeled his fist into his only son's face, causing the latter's head to whip backwards sharply from the impact.

Clary remained uselessly seated as she watched the scene unfold, though her hands had long abandoned the silverware in favor of gripping the sides of her chair. She choked back her gasp when her brother regained his stance with an undaunted expression, marred only by the steady trickle of blood gushing from his nose.

"You would do well to remember your place, Jonathan. Don't you dare talk back to me that way ever again or I will not hesitate to disown you," he threatened before shoving Jonathan away from him forcefully.

Her brother hissed, and Clary saw as he prepared himself to bite back a retort—more than likely to challenge their father to disown him—but at the last second, his eyes darted to her and she gave him an infinitesimal shake of her head.

 _No_ , she told him with her eyes, knowing that their father's threat wasn't an empty one. _Don't fight him. Don't provoke him to do it. I still need you here._

Jonathan's jaw set as he dropped his gaze from hers, but she saw from his stiffened posture that he understood her message. He squared his shoulders, throwing another hateful stare at their father, then he pivoted sharply on his heel and stormed out of the dining hall without another backwards glance. He didn't even bother to veil his temper as he slammed the doors behind him shut, the sound reverberating like thunder.

"I beg your pardon, Father," Clary quickly stood and curtsied, not wanting to be the one to stay behind and deal with the aftermath of her father's wrath. Then she, too, ran towards the doors, throwing them open to chase the white-blond figure known as her brother.

"Jon! Jon!" Clary shouted after him, but he continued walking away from her at a brisk pace, not even bothering to acknowledge that he had heard her calls.

Feeling the waves of her own Morgenstern-inherited anger consume her, she skidded to a halt and narrowed her eyes narrowed at her brother's retreating back.

"JONATHAN CHRISTOPHER MORGENSTERN!" She yelled.

Finally, her brother's pace slowed to a halt and turned around to face her. The anger from his face had dissolved and he was looking at her with an expression that she recognized to be sorrow and…guilt. What was he even feeling guilty about?

As if unable to bear the weight of her gaze, he looked away from her, but stood with the same rigid and wary posture, his hands alternating between clenching and unclenching his fists.

Before Clary realized what she doing, she had already closed the distance between them and thrown her arms around his neck, holding him like a lost sea voyager clinging onto a lone piece of driftwood. "Don't leave me, Jon," she said before burying her face into his shoulder.

Jonathan stiffened a little before relaxing into her embrace. Then, slowly, his arms shifted to encompass her waist. "I-I shouldn't have said anything to him. You shouldn't have to see any of that. I'm so sorry, Clare-bear," he whispered in a remorseful tone.

Clary removed her head from her brother's chest and gave him a reassuring smile.

The blood was still dripping from his nose and was now trailing a crimson path down to the front of his tunic. Despite herself, she grimaced at the sight.

"We need to talk…after I clean you up. Come on," she said, tugging her brother by his arm as she led him to her bedroom.

* * *

The Morgenstern siblings sat in awkward silence on Clary's bed, neither wanting to be the first to initiate the opening of their impending conversation.

Presently, Clary was nervously gnawing on the inside of her cheek while Jonathan had settled for tapping his foot restlessly against the hardwood floor. Upon reaching her room, she had promptly nursed her brother's injured nose, and thankfully, it had stopped bleeding by now.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clary watched as her brother gingerly touched his nose before his face screwed itself into a sharp grimace. She contemplated the option of calling Magnus over to inspect her brother's injury, but then again, she could imagine how utterly displeased the doctor would be about being summoned for something as petty as an _almost_ broken nose. She had already troubled him enough after Jace's whiplashing incident. To bother him again this soon probably wouldn't be a good move—even if she was the princess.

She sighed quietly before shaking her distracted mind off of Jonathan's nose condition. It wasn't that she didn't care about her brother. She just wished that he would get on with what he needed to say to her. After all, wasn't he the one who had implied that he wanted to speak with her after breakfast? Surely a punch to the nose hadn't triggered a concussion or caused him to endure a temporary memory loss? It simply irked her that he was just sitting there as if he were playing dumb with her.

 _SPEAK!_ She commanded him in her mind. But when the white-blond idiot remained mute throughout her many attempts at telepathic communication, Clary knew that she had failed.

 _All right, if he doesn't speak, then I won't either,_ she stubbornly decided as she crossed her arms over her chest to mimic her brother's defensive pose.

As much as they loved each other, it was apparent to any that they were both very stubborn, and sometimes, too full of pride, to be the first to give in. It was a poor timing for a battle of wills to take place, but their Morgenstern pride meant that they were content to wait each other out. Because both had secrets that they knew they needed—but were reluctant to—share. And so they would wait until the other's patience cracked.

The silence stretched on for at least a good five minutes, until finally, the tension in the air grew too thick and uncomfortable for either siblings to put up with. They both turned at each other at the same time, their expressions mirroring each other's agitation.

"What's the matter with you?" They asked each other in unison.

Jonathan's eyes widened in surprise at their speech synchronization, but Clary only narrowed her eyes at him, looking far from impressed.

"Oh, no, no, no!" She snapped. "I asked you first!"

"Well," Jonathan quickly gained his retort, "I'm the older one here, so _I_ get to call the shots! _You_ go _first_! Ladies always go first!"

" _Jonathan_ —"

" _Clarissa_ ," he mimicked her tone.

Clary growled at the sound of her birth name. "Don't call me Clarissa," she snarled.

"Well, two can play this game here, Clary. Don't call me Jonathan," he retaliated.

"Fine," she bit back, annoyed. "If it pleases you, _Jon…_ "

"Better! See—"

"Enough stalling, Jon," Clary interrupted him sharply. "What is going on with you? What did you mean when you told Father that Sebastian told you _everything_? And for the love of God, what is the matter with you lately? You've been avoiding me practically all the time, and God knows where you've been and what you've been doing at night. _Are you seeing someone_?" She spluttered, her speech going a mile a minute.

Jonathan looked at her with thinly veiled impatience. "Are you done with your rant now, little sister?" He inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Clary begrudgingly nodded before pursing her lips together. If they kept their typical sibling banter up, she knew that they would never come around to having a proper conversation—not while Sebastian's ceremony was only hours away from now. And while it was selfish of her, she was dying to be fed with some honest answers by her brother.

After a minute had passed and Jonathan still hadn't said anything, Clary gently nudged him in the side. "Jon?" She prompted him.

"I'm getting there." He sighed before dragging a hand over his face wearily. The single gesture made him appear a decade older than his actual age, and it became startlingly more so when he slouched forward and rested his forearms against his thighs. Since when did her exuberant brother become a man who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders?

"You're not going to like listening to this, Clary," he began, caution evident in his tone.

"You haven't been visiting the brothels, have you?" Clary teased, unable to help herself. "Our mother would be so disappointed in you for behaving promiscuously."

Her brother immediately bristled at her insinuation. "No, Clary, I haven't," he said defensively. "What sort of man do you take me for?" He held his hand up to ward off her comment. "And before you ask me any further questions regarding my chastity, let it be known that I am still as pure as the day our dear mother birthed me. Unlike Father dearest, I have no mistress, nor do I have any intentions on taking one— _ever_."

"That's…good to know?" Clary scrunched her nose in disgust.

"You asked," he returned with a defiant shrug. "Now, please be serious about this." His face morphed into one of his more solemn looks, the one he had been wearing as of late. "I've a matter of great importance to tell you and I would like to ask that you hold off any questions you might have until I'm done."

Curious to learn about what had been bothering her brother, she conceded to his request without protest. "Okay."

Jonathan sucked in a deep breath, then rested his chin atop his cupped hands. "Do you remember that day Sebastian visited Idris? He brought you to the barracks and…"

Clary thought that her brother's approach to the topic was more rhetorical than an actual question, so she only nodded to affirm his recount. As much as she didn't like remembering that day, she could never erase it from her memory. Not only was it the day that Jace had nearly died, but it was also the day that she fell in love with him.

"Well, after you left with Thomas, I confronted Sebastian about his actions and he told me some things," he paused momentarily, looking uncomfortable, "One of them happened to be about…your arranged marriage to him."

Clary stared at her brother, astonished by the revelation. "My… _What?!_ "

"As it turns out, Father never intended to give you a choice in _who_ you would marry," Jon explained, his tone softened by his sympathy towards his sister's plight. "Your meeting with those three suitors before Sebastian was orchestrated to include men who were much older than you so that you wouldn't be interested in them. But Sebastian… Sebastian has been promised your hand in marriage since you were mere children." Jon paused, letting those words sink in. "There's no easy way to say this, Clary. But it seems that you were the price that Father paid in exchange for an alliance with the Verlacs during his crusade to overthrow the Herondales."

Many emotions ran through Clary at the same time. Anger, hurt, betrayal…complete and utter devastation that her father saw her as more of an _asset_ —a property that could easily be traded with—instead of his child. Of course, she had known that a son held more value in her father's eyes, but didn't he care about her at all? She was his _daughter_. Even if she weren't destined to carry on their family name, she didn't think that she deserved to be deprived of her right as his child, to be deprived of his love. Was there something wrong with her, that made it impossible for her father to love her?

"What did I do, Jon?" Clary whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.

"What do you mean, sis?" Her brother frowned, but his confusion quickly turned into concern when he realized how close she was to crying.

"I mean," she swallowed the lump rising in her throat, "What did I ever _do_ to make him hate me so much? Am I so detestable, so… _damaged_ that our father can't love me?"

"Oh, Clare-bear," Jonathan cooed as he pulled her into a side-embrace. As she often did when she sought out her brother for comfort, she buried her face into the crook of his neck. "No. No, baby sister. There's nothing damaged about you. You're good, Clary. You're so good and pure. Our father is just…" He shook his head. "He's blind to all that is good in the world because he has too much darkness and bitterness in his heart. I know it's not enough for you, but _I_ love you. Our mother loved you. You don't need _his_ love, Clary."

The young princess hung her head with a choked sob, awash with feelings of resignation for the second time that day. Oh, how her chest ached and her head pulsed with a terrible migraine! If there was even any lingering feelings of love tethering her loyalty to her father, it was withering away quickly. "Well, at least there's still something to be grateful for in all of this. At least you're still heir to the throne," she said, trying to sound vaguely optimistic.

"And so the plot thickens," Jonathan jumped in with a sardonic chuckle.

"What do you mean?"

"Sebastian—"

"Oh, him again?" Clary huffed, swiping angrily at the tear stains on her cheek. "I hate that name. I hate that man."

"Join the club."

"Stupid Sebastard," she muttered.

This time, Jon let out a genuinely amused chuckle. "What?"

"Nothing," Clary quickly said. There was one other person who had ever referred to Sebastian by that less than flattering nickname…and that was person was Jace.

And despite how forthcoming her brother had been with his secret, she was not ready to reciprocate by telling him about Jace. It wasn't as much as the complicated nature of their relationship that made her hesitant, but rather the overprotective nature of her brother. For all her hopes of having a caring father destroyed by the reality of his abhorrently selfish inclinations, her brother compensated for it by voluntarily taking on the role of a mother hen.

"I could have sworn you said—"

"What else did Sebastian tell you? Besides my _arranged marriage_ ," Clary interrupted, the words 'arranged marriage' leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Almost immediately, she noticed her brother tense, as if he was brewing with anger. Then, in a move that was uncharacteristic of Jonathan, he stood up and began to pace wildly.

With each round he paced, she could see him grow angrier and angrier—his fists clenched tightly at his sides and his chest heaving with heavy, furious breaths. Clary found herself growing more and more worried, until finally:

"Father doesn't see me as a suitable heir to the throne," he said gruffly. "Your marriage to Sebastian is more than just a solution to curry favor with the Verlacs. It's a _political_ marriage that would unite Idris and Alicante. Once Father is no longer capable of ruling, Sebastian will be announced as his successor."

"What?" Clary shouted. She was more than just angry now… She was _livid_. "But that's not fair, Jon! You're his _son._ How could he even think to give the throne to someone like Sebastian? A complete outsider!" Where was her father going with all these horribly made decisions? It made no sense at all! For years, he had spent obsessing over his 'stolen' birthright—to the point of exterminating his enemies and enslaving their only child—and after all of _that_ , he would willingly give it away to another man's son? Since when was Valentine Morgenstern a charity?

"Well, that's the _other_ thing, Clary…"

The two siblings stared at each other, Jonathan increasingly resembling the bearer of bad news while Clary wondered what else— _What else is there?—_ that could possibly be added on top of this already convoluted scheme?

"Idris's economy is being threatened, among other things," Jon explained. "That's why there is an urgent need for a merger between Idris and Alicante. Since Father took over as king, the people's taxes have increased in order to fund the gladiator games. He's neglected everything else…" Clary closed her eyes as she felt her heart sink deeper into the pit of her stomach. "It's a world of misery and poverty out there, Clary. I've seen it for myself. Here, we're being served enough meals in one day to feed a small village, while there are _thousands—_ and possibly more _—_ out there just barely scraping by. The thought is sickening to me."

Jon's gaze dropped to the floor. "That's why I haven't been around the palace that much," he said in a much softer tone. "I've been visiting the poor families in Idris and supplying them with rations without Father's or the council's knowledge," he confessed.

Clary stared at her brother, amazed by this new piece of revelation. _Finally,_ she was hearing something good…something she could feel happy and proud of. It was almost hard to believe that Jon—carefree, frivolous, and sometimes idiotic Jon—had been taking matters into his own hands to selflessly help the citizens of Idris, a duty that their father should have been carrying out instead of him. But then again, she realized belatedly, it shouldn't have been much of a surprise. After all, she knew her brother's heart well. Jon was living proof that blood didn't determine a person's character. For all his physical resemblances to their father, Jonathan was good, caring, and a far nobler man than their father could ever hope to be.

Slowly, Clary approached her brother and took his chin in between her thumb and forefinger. He met her gaze, brilliant green eyes reflecting his modesty.

"You will make a great king one day, you know that?" Her words came out sounding more like a fact than it was a question. "I'm so incredibly proud of you. Our _mother_ would be proud of the man you've become," she told him earnestly, provoking a tear out of her brother.

Within moments, she was engulfed in his strong arms, the arms of the only _real_ family she had left. "I love you, baby sis. Don't you ever forget that," he told her, his voice muffled by her hair.

"I know that. And I love you, too, you big buffoon," she said, ruffling his hair playfully.

She stayed in the embrace for a long time, relishing in safety and peace of the moment. _If only this could last…_ Clary thought, her demeanor turning sombre at the thought.

"Jon, you know I can't marry Sebastian, right?" She said as she finally extricated herself from the hug. "I'm not going to let myself be used by anyone…not even _Valentine_ ," she spat her father's name in a tone that crackled of resentment.

Valentine had lost the right to be called 'Father'—not when he had been toying with her and using her for his own selfish means. Not when he had practically _sold_ her over as if she were part of the livestock trade. How could she have been so blind? If he was truly trying to protect her, then he wouldn't be forcing her into marrying an abusive scoundrel like Sebastian. Maybe that was why he approved of Sebastian… They were like two peas in a pod. Cold, heartless, manipulative, and not to mention, _deceitful frauds_.

Which led her to another conclusion—

Jace was more than likely telling the _truth_. While the thought gave her relief, it also made her suddenly apprehensive—but for a different reason altogether. How was she to go about telling her brother about Jace?

"We will worry about Sebastian and Valentine later. Now… It's _your_ turn to speak, Clary," Jonathan said lightly as if hearing her thoughts.

The young princess swore inside her head, and for a fleeting moment found herself regretting ever inviting her brother into her room in the first place. _Perhaps I should feign a migraine and send him away? It wouldn't be a complete lie…_ All too quickly though, she banished the selfish thought. _No, it wouldn't be fair to Jon._ Her brother had already laid out everything on the line by telling her his secrets, none of which were easy for her to hear, much less for him to share.

Clary took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly in a feeble attempt to steel her shaky nerves. Truthfully, she knew that her secret was nothing quite as major and significant as Jon's, but she couldn't stop herself from worrying anyway. What if Jon disapproved of the man she loved?

 _Okay, deep breaths. Be rational about this. Jon's relatively harmless… Right? Right._

Clary shook at her head to banish the ridiculous conversation she was having with herself. If she was going to do it, then she would have to approach the matter…delicately. There was no point rushing straight into the announcement that she had been in a secret relationship.

Picking at her nails, she managed to stammer out, "Jon, do you believe Fa— _Valentine_ about his history with the Herondales?"

The abruptness of Clary's question visibly threw her brother off. "What do the Herondales have anything to do with what's been bothering you?"

 _Everything_. Out loud, Clary said, "Just answer the question."

Jonathan gave her an inquisitive frown but complied, "No, of course not." He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "At least, not Fa- _Valentine's_ version of the story behind their feud. Knowing his obsession with the games, I wouldn't put it past him to steal from his own parents and then frame the Herondales for it. It adds up to why Alicante is so generous to him, after all. He bought them over with money, and now, he's trying to use you too."

The anger that had surfaced in her brother mid-speech was suddenly muted by an outpouring of brotherly affection and protectiveness. "Don't worry, Clare-bear. From now on, we're going to stick together and I'm going to protect you," he said as he stroked her hair. "I'm not going to let Valentine go through with his plans. Sebastian will have to go through me before he can touch a hair on your head. I'm not sure how we are going to do this, but I have every intention of exposing our father for his crimes and oust him from the throne."

Clary nodded, half-listening, half-strategizing the next part of her revelation. "You know, if we're going to do that, we need to look for evidence about his activities," she suggested as she remembered Jace's words from the night before, of when he had begged her to look for proof of his parents' innocence. She owed it to Jace to clear his family's name—

"Oh I agree. But before you think me senile, sister mine, that doesn't erase the fact that you're still hiding something from me," Jon interrupted in a slightly disgruntled tone.

Clary stared back at him with wide green eyes. Why did her brother have to be so infuriatingly impatient? She was nearly on her way to _subtly_ introducing the idea of Jace, but because of his untimely interruption, her thoughts had scattered into a panicked frenzy.

 _"I'vebeenseeingsomeone,"_ was Clary's hasty reply.

As predicted, her brother's posture suddenly became ramrod straight as his green eyes pierced her in a hard, interrogative stare. "Who?"

It was one word. One question. Yet it made her flinch.

"His name is Jace," she mumbled.

"Jace?"

"Hm."

"Hm," Jon parroted. "What a stupid name," he flippantly commented, much to Clary's chagrin.

"No, it's not!"

"Well then, I don't suppose it would burden you to tell me his last name?" Her brother quirked a brow as he folded his arms across his chest. "It's necessary information, you know. His gravestone would look extremely bland if it only said 'Jace'."

Despite herself, Clary rolled her eyes at her brother's predictability. As she gave him a once-over, she was relieved to see that he was actually taking the news better than she had initially expected. His calculated, protective response aside, she could sense that her brother was actually more curious than displeased over the fact that she was seeing someone. _Good._

"Ever so quick to hand out the death sentence on any boy that comes near me, aren't you? Well then, perhaps a little perspective is in order. See, you've met him before, Jonathan," Clary said with all of the confidence she didn't have before. Her brother gave her a bewildered look. "Once briefly in the stables a few weeks ago…" Her expression darkened, as did her tone. "And another time when you stopped Sebastian from whipping him to death."

Jon's eyes lit up in— _amazement?_ "The gladiator? Shadowhunter?"

Clary nodded. "I know it's probably not what you would have expected when I told you that I was seeing someone," she treaded carefully.

To her surprise, her brother snorted. "On the contrary, sister mine, given your proclivity towards rebelliousness, I am not quite as surprised that your choice of a companion turned out to be a gladiator," he said with a wry smile.

"There's more," Clary told him, feeling encouraged by his seemingly positive reaction. _Now_ she could go on to the more critical part of her confession. "Believe it or not, Jon, there was actually a point to me asking you about the Herondales earlier," she told him with a pointed look.

It took Jonathan several seconds to figure out the meaning behind his sister's words, but as soon as he did, his complexion turned several shades paler.

"The gladiator is…Jace _Herondale_?" His voice was a mere whisper.

This time, Clary only nodded.

"But that…" Jon shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be… Valentine killed—"

"He spared Jace. But only for the sake of torturing his enemy's son," Clary said with a mirthless scoff. "Valentine did more than just order the killing of the Herondales, Jon. He raped Jace's mother and butchered her in front of him. And Jace…" She trailed off with a shake of her head.

By then, Jonathan had perched himself on Clary's bed as if the weight of his sister's disclosure had robbed him of his ability to stand. "I don't know what to say…" Jon admitted, somewhat subdued. Then, the hammer of sense hit him:

It was one thing to know that his sister—who for all intents and purposes, was still a child to him—was in a _relationship._ If he read into her facial expressions and body language correctly, he could see that she cared about her partner deeply… And that troubled Jon. Not so much as the fact that he was a slave or a gladiator—no, he didn't care about any of those things. As much as he didn't want to allow certain prejudices to dictate his feelings on the matter, he couldn't deny them. What were the odds that the living Herondale son managed to charm _his_ _sister_ —a girl who was so obviously the daughter of the man who had been responsible for destroying his life? What if it was all an elaborate plan for revenge?

Jon leaned forward until his arms were resting on his thighs, his countenance radiating with seriousness. "The important question, Clary, now is this: can you _trust_ him?" He eyed her, green orbs swimming with deep concern. As she opened her mouth to speak, he raised his hand to cut her off. "Before you answer, I want you to think it through carefully. Don't just let your emotions rule your words, but let your _instinct_ be the one to guide you."

Clary smiled. "It's so strange to hear you talk like that," she jibed. "And I have thought about it, Jon. Long and hard." Her smile dropped from her face as she recalled the altercation in the stables from several nights ago. "To be honest, I didn't find out that Jace was a Herondale until recently, when Isabelle ran into us and recognized him. I didn't take it well. I had believed that Jace was lying to me and was only using me to get to Valentine. So I ended our relationship."

A lump formed in her throat, and she fought to keep a tight control of her emotions. "Then Jace came to see me last night. It was _hard_. I was still so convinced that he had betrayed me, but then I looked at him— _really_ looked at him, Jon. I could see him…hurting. _Grieving._ He looked like he'd lost weight and hadn't slept in days. That wasn't the look of a man who is insincere, much less evil…" She met her brother's gaze then. "So, yes, I trust him. With all my heart and soul, Jon, _I trust him._ And despite how crazy it sounds…I love him, too."

Jonathan took it all in with a silent and thoughtful expression. A part of him was still reeling with skepticism, but somehow or another, he found himself trusting his sister's judgment. Recalling his own brief encounters with the gladiator, he could see that, yes, even then, Jace Herondale cared for his sister. The way he had defended her from Sebastian, and in turn landing himself a harsh whipping that could have very well killed him if not for Jonathan's timely intervention—and he suspected, the gladiator's own sheer will to live—spoke volumes of his character. At the very least, he had a good and honorable bone in his body.

"Did he tell you that he loves you?" Jon asked her with a teasing grin.

Clary caught on to his attempt to lighten the mood and socked him in the arm playfully. "Yes, he did." Leaning slightly into her brother, she felt the urge to continue sharing. It felt good, she realized, to have someone to confide in. "When we met last night, we…argued a little," she said, sounding contrite. "I said some mean things to Jace, and he was rightfully, very upset with me. But he also told me that he still loves me, and would wait for me to make my decision." She glanced at her brother then, as if seeking his approval. "I want him back, Jon."

To her surprise, he crushed her into a bone-breaking hug. "If it means anything to you, sweet sister, you have my blessings to pursue your relationship," he said, to Clary's indescribable joy and relief. But all too quickly, the tender moment was broken by her brother's (unfortunately) keen attention to certain 'details' she had carelessly let slip in her moment of vulnerability.

"Wait, you said something about you and Jace meeting each other last night?" Before Clary could say anything, he blazed on. "Clary, I know for a fact you haven't left the palace in days—including _last night._ " He pinned with a glower that demanded an explanation.

Clary flashed him an innocent smile, hoping to stall him. "You would be delighted to know that Jace is wonderfully persistent, and resourceful…"

" _Clarissa Adele._ "

"Fine," Clary huffed at his rebuking tone. "Jace visited my room last night."

Jon's reaction was instantaneous. His face contorted in such rage that she could have sworn she saw a vein pop in his right temple. "A _boy_ ," he spat the word distastefully, "visited your room in the middle of the night?!" He shouted, though his anger was quickly replaced by confusion. "Wait, how _did_ he manage that? He couldn't have possibly slipped past the guards."

Clary eyed her brother weirdly. Sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder if he was ever dropped on the head as a baby. It would certainly explain his mercurial mood swings. "Secret passages," she said, pointing to fireplace. "Jace came in through there…from the stables."

Her brother immediately got up, crouched by the fireplace, and stared for a long, _long_ time.

"I'm curious, Jon. How long exactly do you intend to stare at my fireplace?"

Her brother, still fixated on said fireplace, replied distractedly, "Long enough for it sink in that there's an actual _cool_ secret passageway behind this thing that neither of us bothered to discover until you, sister mine, decided to fall in love with a Herondale." He finally turned around. "So, would it be preposterous for me to assume that he found your room by luck?"

At this, Clary smiled widely. "Luck? No. Coincidence? No. _Fate?_ I certainly think so. I mean, what were the odds that my room turned out to be Jace's old one?"

Jon's jaw dropped as if to convey his incredulity. Clary grinned at him. "Are there any other mind-boggling confessions that you intend to make?" As if reconsidering his question, Jonathan held up a finger. "On second thought, I think I've exhausted my capacity to handle surprise all in one morning, thank you. Please remind Jace that if he wishes to win me over as future brother-in-law, then there is to be no more sneaking around in your chambers. Or anywhere private or isolated, for that matter. While I do trust you both to be able to behave honorably around each other, it's still not very…decent."

Clary flushed but conceded to her brother's point. In any case, she knew that he hadn't meant to insult either her or Jace, only that he held her best interests at heart. Any future meetings Jace would have to be confined to just the stables then, she silently compromised.

"Moving on," she said to change the subject, "I know you would have probably guessed this yourself, but I think it bears mentioning." A twinge in her chest forced her to take another deep breath, though her words still came out shaky. "Jace has implied, quite clearly, that he intends to… _kill_ Valentine."

As she had foreseen, brother's face drained of color at the word 'kill'. Clary imagined that any dispute Jon would have concerning their father was similar to hers. While they both agreed that Valentine should be dealt with justice for his crimes—and for everything he had done to hurt them and would continue to do to hurt them—their hearts couldn't ignore that he was still their father. The man might not have any scruples against hurting his own flesh and blood, but Clary and Jonathan certainly cared. Neither of them were taking their plans to commit treason against their father lightly, but they understood the necessity to remove him from the throne before more innocent lives could suffer at his hands.

"I neither approve nor disapprove of Jace's intent," Jon finally said, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly in his throat. "Because it's not my right or place to interfere. Between the three of us, Jace has experienced Valentine's cruelty the most. He has more cause to seek justice than the both of us combined. But I won't cross the line by killing my own father, regardless of—"

"Shh…" Clary rubbed her brother's back, seeing how upset he was becoming. "I know, Jon. I only told you to get it out of the way. I don't want you to be blindsided."

"And I appreciate your honesty, Clary." Jon smiled wanly. "I know we've barely started, but it's just so hard to wrap my head around the fact that we're going to do this. I mean, are we?"

The two of them fell silent as they took the time to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. Even without a third party input, they knew that it would be risky. Time was running short, and with no other allies other than themselves to fall back on, the odds of failure were extremely high. Punishment would no doubt be severe…and that was putting it mildly. Jon was right; they had barely started. It would be easy to turn back on their word _now_ , to choose self-preservation over what could very well be a suicide mission. One other way of viewing it would be to live to fight another day—but then the question would be, _when_? And could they afford to pass up the only possible chance to correct the wrongs sooner rather than later?

"Yes, we are," Clary replied firmly. "If not for ourselves, then for our people."

"You're right," Jon agreed. "Jace can handle Valentine when the opportunity presents itself, but _our_ main priority should be focused on exposing his crimes. So," Jon clapped his hands once before rubbing them together feverishly. "The first thing we need is to gather the evidence."

"Valentine's study?" Clary helpfully suggested. "It's the only room in the entire palace that he has gone to great lengths into keeping everyone out of. If we're going to find anything incriminating about him, that should be the first place we look."

"Indeed," Jon said. "Ah, and a good thing, too, that Sebastian decided to hold his coronation ceremony tonight," he added, mostly to himself.

Unfortunately, Clary misinterpreted his words as she visibly fumed at them. "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT, YOU TRAITOR?" She demanded lividly.

"Ow, Clarissa, you're damaging my eardrums!" Jon shrunk away from her while Clary glared at him, unfazed. "Stop giving me the evil eye," he said, flicking her forehead. "Think about it, Clary. With Sebastian's coronation ceremony, Valentine will be away in Alicante, which means that the study will be…" He deliberately let the sentence hang in the air.

 _Empty_ , Clary completed in her head. "Yes, but in case you've forgotten, _genius_ ," she groused with an indignant roll of her eyes, "Valentine is expecting the both of us to come with him. How exactly do you plan on executing this ploy of yours if neither of us are allowed to stay behind?"

"By making sure that _you_ stay behind," Jonathan replied without missing a beat. Ruffling Clary's hair, he gave her a mischievous grin. "Brush up on your acting skills, baby sister. You're going to be playing the role of the poor, ill victim."

"He won't believe it!"

"He _will_ ," Jon said in a convincing tone, "Because we are calling in reinforcements. Even Valentine won't be able to deny the words of a renowned physician."

Clary was very tempted to remind her brother that their father was a man who valued his own counsel over everyone else's—including that of a 'renowned physician' as Magnus Bane—but she couldn't muster the energy to argue with him over the matter. Instead, she decided to bring his attention to other factors they had yet to consider.

"You do realize that the entire northern wing is guarded like a fortress," she told him with a weary sigh. Inwardly, she felt the urge to slap herself for not thinking of _that_ before she suggested the study. It was certainly a valid concern, but the very thought was enough to counteract her earlier enthusiasm. "Never mind the part about tricking Valentine into letting me stay. How am I supposed to get past the guards?"

"Magnus Bane," was her brother's only irritating response.

"Magnus?" Clary repeated in a cynical tone. "I understand his role as a doctor in this since he is, in fact, a _doctor_. But how is he supposed to help us with the guards? Because contrary to popular belief, Jon, Magnus is not a warlock by the virtue of how much glitter he wears."

"You'll be surprised by what Magnus _can_ do, Clary," her brother answered.

"And you would know this because?"

"I've asked him for help—once or twice in my rebellious teen years," he shrugged. "I'll go over to his house and meet him. Get him to concoct a potion or whatever…"

"You jest."

"Nope, most definitely am not, Clare-bear. Have a little _faith_."

"Now you sound exactly like Jace," she said, pointing a finger in the general direction of her brother's face.

"Just—think positive thoughts," he insisted. "I best be going."

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Jonathan swiveled around to face his sister with an exasperated sigh. "To Magnus's. I told you."

"May I come, too?"

"Of course not," he said, rolling his eyes,"You need to _lie low_. I'll be back soon."

"Jon—wait!"

"What?"

"At least send Isabelle up, will you?" Clary bit her lip anxiously. "I need to talk to her. And to keep me company until it's time."

"Of course, baby sis. Anything you want," he smiled. "Now, stay here and be a good girl. I'll be back with Magnus sooner than you think," he declared, purposely planting a wet kiss on Clary's cheek before childishly prancing out of her room.

Clary let out an exaggerated noise of disgust before furiously scrubbing at the slobber on her cheek, though she couldn't help but smile as she watched her brother leave. Having confided in Jon and knowing that they were on the same page was a huge relief. She was glad that she wasn't alone in this anymore.

" _When you're ready to move past this, ready to love me without any of this interfering in our relationship, you know where to find me_ ," Jace's voice echoed in her mind.

Clary smiled at the promise behind his words, and the peace it brought her. Even without the evidence, she had nothing to lose. Jace would be waiting for her, and whether she succeeded in her mission or not, she already knew that she would come to him.

* * *

 ** _A/N: So... this chapter took a lot longer for me to update because I had to edit it quite a lot. I was reading through my original material and I was like, "Ugh, what was I thinking when I first wrote this? Everything sounds so juvenile!" Admittedly, this revised version, though in my opinion, is slightly better than its predecessor, is NOT perfect either. But I did my best to improve my writing as much as possible._**

 ** _Old readers, you would have probably spotted_ _that brand new scene I wrote in, i.e. Clary's flashback of the very first time she was punished by Valentine. Hope that brought out a new insight into Valentine and Clary's relationship. Also, have I mentioned that Valentine's character is quite similar to Jonathan Rhys Meyers's portrayal of King Henry in the TV series_ The Tudors _? And yes,_** ** _Jonathan Rhys Meyers played Valentine in the movie adaptation of TMI: City of Bones, too ;)_**

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 ** _Let me know what you guys think of this chapter... Thoughts on Clary? Jon? Their sibling relationship? Love those two together, by the way. Not enough TMI fanfics explore the dynamics of what a good relationship the siblings could have had if not for what Valentine did to corrupt Jonathan, I think. Which is why it makes me giddy writing about the Morgenstern siblings._**

 ** _So next chapter... Sorry, Jace won't be in it. But it's a major chapter, as old readers would know. Massive revelations to look forward to, if the chapter title (In The Demon's Den) is any indication._**

 ** _Until next time, peace xoxo!_**


	15. Chapter 14: In The Demon's Den

_**Author's Note: Hello lovelies! I'm so sorry for the later than usual update...I've been swamped with work and school assignments (still am), but I figured that I shouldn't put off updating any longer. I'll leave for my usual commentary at the end, for now, enjoy!**_

 _ *****Fair warning though, there's some fairly disturbing content in this chapter*****_

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 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

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 **CHAPTER 14: IN THE DEMON'S DEN**

 **October 3, 508 _(part II)_**

Clary flinched sharply as a loud crash erupted several feet away from her bed.

Surreptitiously peeking through her fingers, she spied the broken shards of her favorite porcelain vase on her bedroom floor and mentally cursed her father. He was pacing back and forth around her room like a caged animal, his entire body strained with anger.

"What do you mean she can't come with me to Alicante?" Valentine demanded as Magnus calmly stood up from Clary's bed.

The latter had arrived just over twenty minutes ago and had been pretending to examine Clary when her father had stormed into her room with all of his livid glory on display.

Her broken vase wasn't the first inanimate object to fall victim to the short-tempered king's wrath. She was certain that a fairly large dent now resided on her wall, from when her father had thrown open the door to announce his arrival.

"Exactly that, Your Majesty. The princess is ill," Magnus answered in a placid tone.

Clary shut her eyes tightly as Valentine snatched up another one of her vases in his hand and flung it towards the wall, resulting in another massive pile of shards.

 _Wonderful_ , she thought sarcastically. Had the man no respect for antiquities?

Meanwhile, Magnus was absentmindedly picking at his own glittery fingernails, appearing completely unaffected by the king's outburst.

Clary found his courage to be truly admirable—not many people dared to stand in the unpredictable king's presence without being on their complete guard. But for that reason alone, Magnus's courage, though commendable, was a foolish move.

"I am warning you, Bane. Do not test my patience," Valentine walked up to doctor and gripped him hard by the collar. "Considering the situation, I find a vague explanation to be extremely unacceptable. I do not need you to tell me the obvious—tell me _exactly_ what I'm dealing with. Or _so help me God_ , I will take my daughter with me regardless of what you say—and you will find your services no longer required in my court," he threatened.

This finally gained Magnus's full attention. He exchanged the king's glare with a look of apology, although there was defiance carefully concealed within the depths of his yellowish-green eyes.

"As your humble servant, I apologize, Your Majesty, and ask that you spare me your kind forgiveness for my lacking behavior," he bowed his head. Valentine finally let go of him, but he did not lose his steely glare. Magnus cleared his throat and turned to Clary again as if to direct the king's attention to his daughter.

"Princess Clarissa is not only unwell, but she is displaying signs of the plague," Magnus explained, sounding completely serious this time.

Clary's heart raced at Magnus's declaration, and she resisted the urge to smack him over the head with her pillow. Was he insane? The plague was a serious epidemic—and one that truly scared her to think about. Couldn't he have at least chosen something simpler and less deadly, like food poisoning?

"Now, as you already know, the plague is an extremely contagious and fatal disease. As a doctor, I can only advise against her going to Alicante, but bear in mind; it might not only cause her health to deteriorate, but there is also a very likely possibility that it might end up affecting you and others she comes into contact with. In this case, the best procedure, apart from administering the medication she needs, is strict quarantine until further notice."

"The plague?" Valentine repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Magnus said. "Now, I understand that this is alarming news to you, but rest assured that I will do everything within my power to ensure that the princess makes full recovery." There was a subtle exchange of eye contact between Magnus and Jon then, which fortunately went by undetected by the king. "And as an added precaution, I would like to request your permission before I leave, to administer a herbal concoction I've brewed myself to every guard and member of the palace, including yourself. It isn't guaranteed to ward off the plague, it should help reduce the risks of contracting it."

Valentine still looked skeptical and angry about the entire situation, but gave his nod of approval at Magnus's request. "Very well, Doctor. Do what you feel is necessary—although I won't need your concoction," he said through clenched teeth.

Clary knew her father well enough to know that he usually brewed his own medicine instead of consuming the ones prescribed by the doctors and physicians in Idris, regardless of how qualified they were. It was another part of his distrustful nature; he was wary that any of them would try to poison him.

Magnus nodded obediently. "As Your Majesty desires. Miss Isabelle," he turned to the handmaiden, who looked up at him upon being addressed, "Clear that table, will you please? I'll need some space for my equipment and to transfer the concoction into smaller vials for distribution."

Isabelle silently moved towards the large table erected in the middle of the room, Magnus following her lead with his doctor's bag in hand.

"My poor baby sister," Jonathan chimed in as he sat himself on the bed next to Clary. He took a wet cloth out of the wooden bowl and gently dabbed it on Clary's forehead. She resisted the urge to kick him off the bed, especially when he started to swaddle her with layers and layers of blanket as if she were an infant. "Sleep, my sweet child."

" _Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern_ ," Valentine sounded on the verge of another murderous tirade, "What. Are. You. Doing?"

Jonathan looked up at their father, appearing offended. "Caring for my sister, of course."

"Did you not hear the doctor?" He gestured to Magnus wildly. "Your sister has the plague! You ought to be keeping your distance from her. I will not have you indisposed for King Sebastian's ceremony tonight."

"Why, Father, your concern for me is most touching," Jon smiled at him sarcastically. "I apologize if my sister's health is far more important to me than Sebastian's gaudy ceremony. Under such circumstances, I find that being inflicted with the plague would be a much greater blessing than having to regale Sebastian's guests with my presence."

"Watch your tongue, Jonathan," Valentine seethed. "Not only are your priorities misplaced, but you are treading on dangerously thin ice. I'm certain that you do not want a repeat of this morning's incident," he warned.

Clary squinted her eyes at her brother and gave him an imperceptible shake of her head to discourage his rebelling retorts. He had already taken too many risks today by challenging their father—she needed him to stop before he really pushed him off the deep end. For both their sakes, he needed to stop responding to his anger and become the calm and placid Jonathan she knew him to be. Tensions were running high enough as it is without his unnecessary, impudent remarks to stoke the perilous flames of their father's volcanic rage.

"I apologize, Father," Jon said in a begrudgingly apologetic tone. "I wouldn't dream of going against you. After all, you have been a generous father to me and given me more than I've deserved in my ungrateful life."

The air in Clary's bedroom had never been fraught with more tension than it was in that very moment. Everything seemed delicate, vulnerable, as if one wrong move—or in this case, the wrong slip of the tongue—could lead to murder. With their father's consistent track record in violence, Clary wouldn't be surprised if that happened to be the end result.

"And you would do well to remember that," Valentine finally answered, his voice gruff. "I need to go make final preparations before we set off to Alicante. During my short period of absence, I will be appointing my personal Secretary and Royal Advisor Hodge Starkweather to oversee the affairs of the kingdom. Bane, be sure to report to him before you leave."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I bid you and Prince Jonathan safe travels on your journey," Magnus said evenly.

Valentine then turned his narrowed eyes on her brother. "Jonathan, you are to meet me at the public entrance of the palace by three o'clock sharp. We'll be riding our horses to Alicante instead of taking the carriage—we'll travel much faster that way."

"By which route will we be traveling?"

"The Brocelind Forest," Valentine replied. "It has an easier terrain to maneuver. And if the weather is favorable, we might reach Alicante within four to five hours." He paused then as if contemplating something. "Pack some clothes for an overnight stay in Alicante. We'll ride back to Idris tomorrow at dawn."

"Yes, Father," her brother replied quietly.

Clary had thought that Valentine would leave immediately after delivering his instructions to Jon, but at the last second, he caught her eye, the ominous black of his orbs seeming to pierce her soul. She felt genuine fear creep through her at his glare, and hoped to God that her acting skills weren't as lousy as she felt they were.

"I pray that you will get well soon, Clarissa. We'll have matters to discuss once you are healed. Also, I'll be sure to convey your well wishes to King Sebastian. I am certain he will be most _disappointed_ that you are not able to join us tonight," he said, placing emphasis on the word 'disappointed'.

"Thank you, Father," Clary replied shakily. She could only hope that her father interpreted the reason for the inconsistency in her voice due to her faked illness and not fear.

Valentine made a displeased grunt before he finally departed from the room, leaving the door shut with a loud, resounding bang.

On cue, everyone let out a collective sigh.

"I thought he would never leave," Isabelle, who had been keeping mum the entire time, finally said. Without needing an invitation, she crossed the room to Clary's bed and plopped herself down next to her. "Has his presence always felt this…tense? I could have sworn the entire encounter just sucked the life out of me. I'm exhausted."

"Speak for yourself," Magnus replied. "At least he didn't threaten _you_."

"Well, at least you _both_ don't have to endure his presence on a daily basis," Jonathan interposed—or rather, grumbled. "My tolerance for him is waning by the hour."

"Speaking of, what's the matter with you, Jon?" Clary asked as she sat up, a huge feat in this instance as she had to fight through the layers of blankets her brother had previously swaddled her with.

"What?" He asked defensively.

"You seemed fine after our conversation this morning but now you're all coiled up," she gave him a scolding look, "How am I supposed to concentrate on finding evidence when I'm worrying about whether or not you'll be able to keep yourself in line the moment you're alone with our father?"

"That's an extremely long question," he deflected.

"Be serious, Jon, please," she pleaded with him. "I know that you're angry with him—"

"That's an understatement."

"—But you can't show it. Every time you fight back, he's going to get suspicious. We can't let our emotions get the best of us, Jon. If we're going to succeed, we need to play this out smartly," Clary told him.

"You're right," Jon sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. "God, you're right. I just couldn't help it earlier. But I will try, Clary—I won't let you down, I promise."

"That's the Jonathan we all know and love," Magnus chirped. "Now that we have our dear prince's emotional problems sorted out, let's get to this evening's plan, shall we?"

Clary shot him a withering look. "Ugh, the _plague_ , Magnus? Really?"

"What?"

"Valentine looked as if he was seconds away from calling you out on your bluff!"

"On the contrary, Clary, he seemed pretty convinced by it—he did tell Jonathan to stay away from you, didn't he?" Magnus pointed out. "Besides, there's a reason why I chose the plague and not something as easily curable as the common cold."

"There's always food poisoning," Clary suggested. "Izzy's cooking could easily be passed off as vomit," she said, ignoring Isabelle's dagger-look.

"I detest that comment," Izzy sniped.

Magnus snickered. "As amusing as that scene would have played out," he said, "it still wouldn't have been as effective as staging a plague."

"For instance," Jon filled in, "It helped us fake an excuse to give the guards—Valentine's guards on the northern wing, specifically—the concoction."

"Let me guess," Izzy said, tilting her head back with a coy smile, "This isn't a concoction to ward off the plague?"

"Your guess would be right, my darling Isabelle," Magnus grinned before turning his attention to Clary. "When Jon came over to my house earlier, he told me that you might need help to slip past the guards to your father's study," he explained. "This concoction in particular will enable you to accomplish that by causing its drinker to experience a temporary state of memory loss."

"Memory loss?" She asked unsurely.

"Don't worry," Magnus said, "It won't wipe out their entire memories. After a person drinks it, the concoction will take about thirty minutes up to an hour to take effect. Then for the next six hours, he will be induced into a trance-like state. He won't be able to register anything that happened as real; his subconscious will be subdued. Once the effects of the concoction wears off, he will forget everything that has happened from the moment he took the drink. Consider it as something similar to taking a sleeping draught—but without the falling asleep part."

"That's actually pretty amazing," Isabelle commented.

"Are you certain that it works?" Clary asked skeptically.

"I'm certain of my abilities, yes," Magnus answered confidently.

"It will work, Clary," Jon reassured her. "Magnus is kind of a chemical genius."

"Correction," Magnus said with a lift of his finger, "I am a genius, period."

"Fine," Clary nodded distractedly, "As long as it works."

"It will work," Magnus repeated. "It _better_ work," he muttered, almost to himself. "I used up a hell lot of rare ingredients to make this thing. It'll take months of traveling for me to restock everything…"

"What about the key to Valentine's office? Is there even a key?" Clary interjected.

"Well, none of us have ever been there, so we're not sure," Jon scratched the back of his neck nervously. "There might be, there might _not_ be."

"How helpful," Clary muttered. "We have a magical concoction to knock people out and make them forget the next six hours of their lives, but none of it will even matter if we can't open the door to the study room."

"You'll just have to take a chance then, Clare-bear," Jon said. "Manipulating the guards without our father's knowledge is one thing, but to try to steal a key that might not even exist is another level of risk altogether. We just have to pray that the odds are in our favor."

"In other words, it's a gamble," Clary said, letting her head fall backwards onto her pillow. "This is really draining the motivation out of me."

"Sometimes a gamble is all you have, Biscuit," Magnus said wisely. "Just…hope for the best, and even if it doesn't work out, at least you tried something."

" _Have faith_ ," Another voice said this time—Jace's voice.

Clary closed her eyes and sighed. _I do have faith_ , she thought. _I just don't want to fail you._

"I have to go," Jon announced, sounding dreary. Clary's eyes were still closed but she felt her brother's lips plant a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Please don't despair over this. You have time on your side. It _will_ work out."

She nodded.

"I'll see you tomorrow—the soon I reach home. I love you, baby sis."

"I love you too, you obnoxious oaf," she murmured with a ghost of a smile. "Even if you have the mental capacity of a dimwitted goon at times."

"Says the dwarfish midget/leprechaun," her brother muttered.

He narrowly avoided the silken blue pillow as it came flying towards to his head.

* * *

 **Four hours later…**

Slipping past the watchful eyes had been easy enough. Just over two hours ago, as she continued to play the part of a plague-ridden patient, Isabelle and Magnus had administered the concoction to the guards delegated at the designated wings of the palace (as well as the privy council members and staff who lived in the palace).

It had been an arduous process, but a necessary one. Clary thought it to be a miracle how Magnus had been able to produce over nine dozen vials alone, but she supposed that the rumors must be right… Magnus _was_ some sort of a warlock.

True to the good doctor's assertions, everyone who had been administered the concoction fell into a trance-like state within the hour. It was quite surreal. They seemed to still be functioning as usual, but somehow or another, their subconscious were repressed. They did as they were told without asking questions. They didn't partake in voluntary conversation until addressed. They just operated as if everything were a rehearsed routine.

As Clary approached the northern wing, the two guards who had been assigned to secure the entrance didn't even bat an eyelash when she waltzed past them. They were by far the largest and most intimidating-looking guards she had ever seen, for which she was grateful that Magnus's concoction had worked.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip to the study was uneventful. No other guards lingered amongst the private corridors that had been claimed by her father, so she managed to move along without experiencing any anxiety attacks.

Too soon, the room to her father's study came into view. Clary pressed her hand against her chest, taking in deep breaths in an effort to tame her wildly racing heart. From the outside, everything looked the same—or rather, was similar to areas within the palace that Clary was actually permitted to roam. Nothing stood out of the ordinary. The furnishings and decorations were consistently elaborate, and contrary to her many imaginings, there weren't any gargoyles or demonic-looking statues as she had braced herself to encounter.

She took her time approaching the door, her hand shaking slightly as it neared the brass doorknob. She noticed with a slightly blanched face that there was a _keyhole_ , meaning that there was, in fact, a key for the room—like any other room.

Holding her breath, Clary twisted the doorknob, a surprised gasp escaping her mouth when it gave way underneath her hand. She could hardly believe her luck—that in his haste to leave for Alicante, Valentine had actually neglected to lock the door to his precious study room!

" _Oh my God_ ," Clary found herself murmuring as she pushed open the door, revealing the inside of the study. She had taken precaution to wear her gloves beforehand, just in case she left behind any fingerprints on her father's items. "Oh God. Thank you, God," she breathlessly said as she pressed her back against the door.

Clary was certain that she had never felt more relieved. She almost convinced herself into doing a pirouette to celebrate her minor victory, before she realized that she lacked the grace of a swan to be performing such a delicate move.

"I did it," she said, letting loose a slightly impressed but quiet laugh.

The first thing that caught her attention was the crystal chandelier; it was smaller than the ones displayed in the Great Hall and the royal library, but was still a beauty in its own right. At the center of the room, an impressive-looking leather chair sat at the head of a large mahogany desk, which was overflowing with piles and piles of papers and brown envelopes—some opened and some not—and the Morgenstern seal press.

As she basked in her elation, Clary eyed the clepsydra which indicated that it was seven p.m. precisely. By Magnus's warnings, she should leave the study by ten o'clock—just to be on the safe side. Three hours were sufficient time to carry out what she needed to do.

"Okay, let's do this, Clary," she whispered to herself as she slowly pushed off of the door.

Stepping further into the room, she began to glance around and taking in everything her eyes could capture. The size of the study was actually a lot smaller than she had anticipated, giving the false impression of a 'cosy' interior.

Clary slowly shuffled towards the desk and began to rifle through the papers, skimming over each one meticulously for clues about any suspicious dealings related to Valentine.

But with each paper she went through, she felt herself feeling increasingly deflated. There was absolutely nothing. _None. Zero. Nada. Zilch._

Of course, that didn't mean to say that those letters were completely blank. Quite the contrary, and much to her own dismay, she found many of such letters—apart from mundane reports of activity in Idris and one such letter confirming that her father had indeed been in recent correspondence with Sebastian Verlac—were from her father's many mistresses in court. _Love_ _letters_ , imagine that!

She scowled at every single one of them: the ones from Elizabeth Wellington, Catherine Ashford, Mary Cornwall, Margaret Carter, and a good six others. She had known that even while her mother was alive, her father had never remained monogamous. She had seen with her own two eyes as he shamelessly wooed the women of court—some of whom were already married and others who were her mother's former ladies-in-waiting.

It disgusted her to read of these women professing their love to her father. Surely they were aware that they weren't the 'only one', that neither of them would ever change her father?

"Stupid, blind women," she spat resentfully, though she took care to arrange the letters back in the exact order she found them in.

With another displeased grunt, she turned away to rummage through the drawers in the desk instead, hoping that they would contain something more useful than a bunch of letters written by a brood of lustful, obsessed and attention-seeking women.

Any past transactions or tax collections would be good evidence to incriminate Valentine, Clary thought, trying to frame her mind into thinking rationally. However, much to her aggravation, she amounted to another disappointing failure. There was nothing but more love letters in her father's drawers.

"What is wrong with him?" She grumbled, pondering the sanity of her uncharacteristically sentimental, but more likely, vain braggart of a father. "He keeps all these other letters that ought to be burned in the fireplace but the ones I actually need, he hides away."

 _Calm down_ , she imagined Jace saying. _You have time. Take your time._

Closing her eyes, Clary let out a steadying breath before moving on to the bookcases lining the ecru-painted walls. She ran her fingers across the spines of the thick volumes, marveling at their texture before pulling each one out.

She gently leafed through the pages, finding an array of non-fiction material on history and medicine, as well as some even older literature books, a great majority which were written in Latin, Greek, French, German and Roman. They were an impressive collection, but sadly, none of them were journals of her father's handwritten accounts or had loose pieces of papers purposefully tucked away in between their pages.

Clary huffed in annoyance as she slammed the book she had been holding shut. _Where?_ There had to be evidence stashed somewhere within this very study. There was no way that Valentine could have spent so much time in here and take measures to ensure restricted access if he had nothing actually worth hiding. Which begs the golden question, _where?_

Just as she was close to admitting defeat, something out-of-place caught her eye. One of the bookcases was arranged at an odd angle, leaving open a tiny gap, like…a _secret door._ It was so subtle that anyone could have easily missed it if they weren't looking for anything—or perhaps Clary was just lucky in this instance.

She eyed it for a long time, blinking then squinting her eyes at the specific spot, trying to assure herself that she wasn't hallucinating. But after her several attempts proved that what she saw was indeed real, she began to approach it, her nerves tingling with excitement as her hand made contact with the bookcase.

She gently shoved it forward, wincing slightly at the small creaking noise it made when it swung open to reveal a secret room.

As she gaped into the darkness with awe, her foot carried her a step forward. The room was almost completely submerged in darkness, save for the oil lamp seated on a long wooden table. From where she stood, she could make out an assortment of stationery, several pieces of paper and… _a brown, leather-bound journal._

Without further pause, she advanced towards it, as if feeling an invisible tug to the journal, and let out a shaky laugh when she saw the front cover.

The Morgenstern crest sat proudly on the center of the slightly tattered book, and when she flipped the book open to the very first page, she could recognize her father's elegant, cursive handwriting, marking his initials 'V. Morgenstern' and the year '483'.

 _This is it_ , Clary thought, beaming proudly to herself. The one thing she had been looking for was finally in her hands.

Journal in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, she dragged her feet towards the corner of the room and sat down, placing the lamp next to her on the ground. She didn't even mind the darkness as much as she had thought she would, attributing her sudden spike in courage to the adrenaline rush brought on by her recent success.

Closing her eyes briefly to steel herself, Clary flicked over to the first subsequent pages of the journal, and with a thumping heart, she began to read.

* * *

 ** _April 12, 483_**

 _Today, I took my horse, and alone, I rode off to Alicante. I informed no one except for my confidant Lucian Graymark of my whereabouts—though he knows not of the events that I encountered whilst on my visit there._

 _The gladiator games…it was a truly extraordinary experience and my very first!_

 _Truthfully, how I stumbled upon The Gard—a magnificient arena that had been constructed for the very purpose of the games in Alicante—was by pure chance._

 _Of course, my trip had borne no other intent than a momentary escape from the stifling boredom of princehood—Father had been completely and unnecessarily overbearing lately—but now, I find myself to be glad for it. Relieved, actually._

 _Had Father not driven me to seek the thrill of an adventure, I would have never discovered the amazing revel that I have today. Months prior, I had only, in brief passing, heard whispers from travelers and traders of the gladiator games. They often spoke of it with such high praise, dubbing it as "the greatest sport known to man"._

 _Curious, I had asked Father about it once, only to earn his condescending scowl. "No more talk of such foolishness," he had said. "The games are nothing more than a barbaric display of torture on slaves. It is inhumane—You simply do not subject other beings to pain and torment under the guise of entertainment…"_

 _But Father was—is wrong._

 _Even a hermit can appreciate the beauty of the games…so why can't he?_

 _Although knowing Father's narrow beliefs, I do not blame him one bit. We rarely see eye to eye. Father believes in defending slaves and treating them as equals (I often wonder if he had mistaken his own identity to be Moses instead of Marcus)… The thought itself is repulsing to me. Slaves, our equals? It is completely a ridiculous notion!_

 _Why else would God create slaves, if not to have them serve those of a higher power, those who have been entrusted the divine authority to lead the ones beneath them? If I do say so for myself, the games is a remarkable stroke of genius! A perfect way of establishing the pecking order!_

 _My only hope now is to be granted the opportunity of presiding over the throne—soon. Father is old and senile… He sees not the error of his ways, or of his beliefs. He fears change and revolution. I, on the other hand, am young and ambitious._

 _With time and God's grace on my side, I have no qualms that I will be able to restore the hierarchy to its natural order…starting with that sniveling, little scum, Stephen Herondale. He has been nothing but a thorn in my side since Father and Mother took him in. Brother? He will never be my brother!_

 _I have every belief that he intends to replace me as the heir to the throne in Idris; plotting to steal everything that I hold dear to me. It is imperative to eliminate him once and for all. Then…only then can I introduce the gladiator games to Idris._

 ** _August 5, 483_**

 _The past few months had been pleasantly eventful. Every Friday night, I would set off to Alicante to watch the games, several times with Lucian as my company._

 _I had introduced him to the games shortly after I discovered it, and though he was skeptical at first, he ended up being just as captivated by it—or at least he had told me that he'd enjoyed it._

 _Father and Mother, on the other hand, continue to be unaware of my activities…although I reckon that they do not care as much for me anyway—I don't care either. The last thing I need is for them to hinder me from watching the games, the only pure form of entertainment I have ever loved._

 _On my last trip to the Gard, I was fortunate enough to have gained an audience with the Verlacs, the ruling family in Alicante. To my surprise, they were extremely welcoming and gracious hosts to me, even inviting me to sit amongst them on their dais to watch the games. I find that I enjoy their company very much…and as I watched the games from the dais, I couldn't help but imagine myself sitting on my very own dais—as the new king of Idris—watching my own design of the games transpire before my very eyes._

 _After the conclusion of the games, King Alfred Verlac invited me for dinner, where he then offered me a very exciting proposition. He had suggested that I, in some measure, help to fund the games. And in exchange, he promised that I would be more personally involved in the planning of the games. On top of that, he gave me his word that he would offer me hospitality and aid should I ever find myself in a dire, compromising situation._

 _After giving it much thought, I have come to see King Alfred as a useful partner and ally, and have agreed to his terms._

 _The money which will be used to sponsor the games will come directly from the royal funds in Idris. I believe that this will be a very lucrative form of investment—one which will bring much good to Idris's economy in the long run._

 _The first transaction itself has already been made…only Lucian and the men I have hired (Hodge Starkweather, Samuel Blackwell and Charles Freeman) are aware of the arrangement. I intend to keep it that way._

 ** _August 3, 483_**

 _I saw true beauty today. Celine Montclaire…the thought of her very name sends a remarkably pleasant shudder through me! Blond hair, golden eyes…gold!_

 _I have never seen anything quite as enchanting as her before… I couldn't take my eyes off of her the moment she stepped into the room. Without even realizing it, I had walked over to her and she was staring right into my eyes, piercing my soul with her golden eyes._

 _We had looked at each other for what seemed like hours, and then she looked away, her cheeks flushing with the most beautiful shade of rosy pink as she gave a humble curtsy. Her voice was soft and gentle when she acknowledged me, and she blushed even deeper when I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it._

 _I would have stared at her all day long if I could—especially her lips. I love the way her lips had moved to form the words "Lord Valentine"._

 _She told me that it was her first time attending court today. She came with her father, Lord Joseph Montclaire, whom I know to be a noble merchant._

 _Celine was shy at best and didn't speak much, seemingly content to listen to me speak about myself. I didn't leave her side until her father came to announce that they were departing for home. It shocked me at how disappointed I felt for having to end our time together so abruptly—I have never enjoyed another woman's company as much as I did hers._

 _I asked Celine if I could see her again tomorrow and she said yes. If all goes well, I intend to seek her father's permission to officially court her, then introduce her to Father and Mother._

 ** _September 2, 483_**

 _Celine is mine—she has been since the night her father gave me his permission to court her. I am pleased. Despite being four years her senior, I find myself to have a deep desire and yearning for Celine…I truly believe that I am in love with her._

 _I have even introduced her to Father and Mother, who took an immediate liking to her and seemed approving of our relationship. They even asked her if she was willing to join our private family dinners on a more frequent basis—she agreed, and for that, I am glad._

 _As it is, I have noticed the furtive, lust-filled glances that Stephen has been giving Celine every time I bring her over to spend time with my family. I am afraid that he has plans to sabotage my relationship with Celine and to steal her from me, as he has every other thing that I've owned._

 _I truly despise Stephen and wish that my parents could see him as the deceitful and manipulative thief that he is. He does not deserve our family's generosity. The Herondales weren't even a noble family—But I digress._

 _It has made me realize the urgency to claim Celine as my wife as soon as possible…before Stephen decides to make his move on her. I cannot risk losing her to him as well. I will not lose. I cannot._

 ** _December 21, 483_**

 _That treacherous, slithering snake has done it again! I had only just returned from Alicante when I caught him with Celine—kissing in the royal stables!_

 _The sight drove me mad with rage! I didn't hesitate to punish him. Stephen may have been trained to fight with me when we were younger, but he was no match for my strength. By the time I was finished with him, his entire face was bloodied and his right shoulder was dislocated._

 _On the other hand, I only walked away with a bloody nose…and a broken heart._

 _Celine had chosen Stephen over me! Gone was the shy, conservative girl. Tonight Celine had proven that underneath her gentleness, she was, in fact, a fierce woman… She defended Stephen and told me that she didn't love me—she loved him._

 _I have not felt this much ire or hatred for anyone as much I have for that snake. Even as a child, he had stolen my childhood friend Michael away from me—as if stealing my parents' affections weren't enough. Now he has claimed the heart of the woman who was supposed to be MINE. He is nothing more than a scoundrel and I wish him a most terrible death—I hope he burn in the flames of hell for all of eternity._

 _And as for Celine, I have nothing but absolute loathing for her. She has betrayed me and toyed with my emotions. I understand now that to love is to destroy. Giving my heart out to Celine was clearly a mistake. Not only has she ridiculed me, but she has also destroyed my heart when she chose Stephen. Well… Good riddance to that whore!_

 ** _January 8, 484_**

 _My right to the throne is being seriously threatened. During the last monetary transaction to Alicante, I made a grave error and it has led Father to notice the decline in the royal funds. He has ordered for an investigation, and I can only hope that he does not find out that I am the one responsible behind all of this._

 ** _January 9, 484_**

 _Stephen has found out about my clandestine relations with Alicante and has reported my activities to Father. As of right now, Father is still undecided on where I stand based on Stephen's claims, but I can see that he believes that I am guilty._

 _I am being called to a public trial tomorrow morning in the Hall of Accords to answer to the alleged charges against me in front of my Father and The Clave (his council)._

 _I am beyond worried at this point. Everything that Stephen has been plotting against me is coming full circle—my own terrible lapse in judgment is about to cost me not only my throne, but my future as well._

 ** _January 10, 484_**

 _Judgment has been passed and I have been exiled from Idris for my treason._

 _As it is, the moment I entered the Hall of Accords, I knew then that the odds were not in my favor. Stephen had managed to gather the men that I had been consorting with, and during the trial, they had confessed about their crimes and how I had paid them off for their assistance. As they had relented to my bribery, they too, including Lucian, have been exiled from Idris._

 _Father and Mother will not even look me in the eye anymore. They told me that they no longer had a son by the name of Valentine, that their only son was that scoundrel, Stephen Herondale. They have ordered me to evacuate the grounds immediately—else they will send up their guards to escort me out of Idris by force._

 _I know Stephen is probably enjoying his laugh right now. Not only has he succeeded in terminating me from my position of power as the heir to the throne in Idris, but he has also succeeded in making sure that Mother and Father have cut off all ties to me and disowned me for good._

 _I hope that he does enjoy his victory for now. He may have won this battle, but the war is far from over. I will leave Idris on my own terms with my head held high, but I swear on my own life that I will return to reclaim what is rightfully mine one day… And when I finally do, Stephen will not be the one to have the last laugh._

 ** _January 11, 484_**

 _True to King Alfred's promises, he has granted me hospitality and refuge in Alicante. I have been given my own mansion in Alicante, and for as long as I am here, I will be aiding King Alfred as the manager of the games, as well as other noble duties that he sees me fit._

 _I have voiced my desires to the good king of my intentions to seek revenge on Father and Stephen—and to reclaim the throne of Idris—but King Alfred is adamant that I lie low for now. He insists that it would not do me well should I act on impulse, and after considering his opinions, I agreed with him._

 _King Alfred is my only ally at this point and it would not be wise for me to provoke him since I am indebted to him. As much as I am eager to take back what's mine, I will be patient and attack Idris only when it is truly vulnerable._

 ** _March 10, 484_**

 _It has been exactly two months since my exile from Idris, and so far, I am adjusting to my life here in Alicante very well._

 _A week after I settled into my new home, Lucian introduced me to a lovely woman by the name of Jocelyn Fairchild. She is the daughter of a respected politician in Alicante, and knowing her has been a breath of fresh air. She is feisty and well-spoken, with beautiful red curls that resemble fire, and green eyes that remind me of emeralds. She is a true gem worthy of my devotion. Granted, I do not lust for her as much as I had for Celine, but I have every desire to claim Jocelyn as my own._

 _I proposed to her a week ago, and to my delight, she has accepted my offer to become my wife. We will wed a month from now._

 _I understand that things are moving very fast for me, but I have no desire to wait. It is evident that Celine will no longer be mine, so there is no reason for me to not move on from her and to start anew with Jocelyn. I am eager to start my own family and to have her conceive my heir._

 ** _April 1, 485_**

 _The day of my child's birth looms closer. Jocelyn and I had only been married a few months when she announced that she was with child—MY child._

 _I was extremely thrilled by the news…I still am._

 _I remember how happy I was when she began showing. She complains of having backaches and sore feet, but I can do nothing but smile at her. She really is beautiful, and I am happy to have married her. I have consulted several astrologers who predict that the baby my wife is carrying is a boy. This is wonderful news indeed!_

 _My child will be strong boy—the future king of Idris. I will make sure of it._

 ** _April 19, 485_**

 _The future king of Idris has finally arrived. The hours of labour were long and taxing on Jocelyn, but she is recovering well. I am most grateful to her—not only has she gifted me with a healthy child, but a SON!_

 _Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern._

 _He is a beautiful boy, and all mine. He has my white-blond hair and his mother's eyes. I am proud of my boy. He will grow to be spectacular young man one day._

 _My firstborn. My heir. My prince._

 ** _February 14, 489_**

 _News has flown over to Alicante that my father, King Marcus, is dying of a chronic illness. Stephen has been announced the successor to the throne in Idris, of course._

 _The news of my father's illness, however, is somewhat of a shock to me. As far as I know, Father has always been blessed with good health and is rarely ever unwell. I have my suspicions that Stephen may have been responsible for Father's illness due to his impatience to claim control over Idris. I would not put it past Stephen either to poison Father so that he can finally usurp the throne._

 ** _July 23, 489_**

 _Father has finally succumbed to his illness and his funeral was held today in Idris. Due to my exile, I was unable to attend my father's funeral…though if given the choice, I would not have gone anyway._

 _When I left, Father told me that he never wanted me to set foot in Idris, even if he were dead, and I am absolutely content to accept that. I do not need a father who so easily abandons his own son for another who is not even of his own blood._

 _I have every mind to launch my assault on Stephen right now, but King Alfred continuously insists that it is a rash decision. He has reminded me that if I attacked now, Stephen would have most likely seen it coming and be ready to vanquish me. This terribly vexes me, but I understand the need to be patient—_

 _Let Stephen bask in the glory of his reign for now. Let him think that I have given up and surrendered to him. I will be back to take what's mine when he least expects it… Although, it sickens me to even think of Stephen's smirking face as his coronation day nears…_

 _King Alfred has been invited to his ceremony, and he told me that he will attend on my behalf. I know it is pointless to hope for this, but I PRAY that the people will reject Stephen as their king. He doesn't deserve to be king—he isn't even from a noble bloodline!_

 _On another matter, there are rumors that Stephen and Celine have been married for over a year now and are expecting their first child together. I hope the child dies—or is born with a hideous deformity that will humiliate Stephen. The world could do without another Herondale to leave his taint._

 ** _January 14, 490_**

 _I have been noticing my former childhood friend and Stephen's confidant, Michael, sneaking into the Gard in Alicante to watch the games as of late. There is no mistaking that Michael too has fallen for the games, just as I have._

 _I have every belief that Stephen is unaware of Michael's whereabouts, and it pleases me to know that. It has also crossed my mind that Michael will be a useful associate in the future to help me take down Stephen. He used to belong to me, and if I were to play my cards right, he will be mine again. But for now, I have assigned my spies to keep watch over him._

 ** _May 19, 494_**

 _My son Jonathan has just celebrated his ninth birthday a month ago. He grows to look more like me with each passing day, but I am worried about him. I am not sure that he will make such a fine king in Idris, after all, for he is much too soft-hearted, like his mother Jocelyn, and his two-year-old sister, Clarissa. Take for instance; on his birthday, I gave him a falcon and told him to make it obedient…but in the short four weeks that followed, he taught it to love him instead._

 _The falcon would no longer hunt, but instead expected to be fed! I was disappointed in my son's failure that I took the falcon and broke its neck. Jonathan wept! He wept harder than the first time I ever whipped him with a belt. It embarrasses me to know that my son is weak. Have I already failed in my duty as a father? How could it be that my son is so…damaged?_

 _Jocelyn claims that I am being too harsh on him—that I shouldn't be setting such high expectations on MY son. But he is my heir! Why can't she understand that? I am only doing my best to ensure his success in the future. Jocelyn babies him too much—Clarissa too. How can the future king of Idris be spending so much of his free time playing with his sister? It is simply unacceptable!_

 _Jocelyn insists that I leave Jonathan be…that he will mature at his own time and pace. But God, what does she know? She's a woman! Since when am I being told what to do by a woman? Jocelyn needs to be taught her place. She isn't indisposable to me just because she is my wife. On the contrary, I am growing bored of her—I intend to take a new mistress soon._

 ** _July 23, 499_**

 _Ten years have passed since Father's death and Stephen's reign over Idris… I am still lying in wait for the right moment to strike and to exact my revenge on Stephen. If my premises are true, Stephen would have most likely erased his suspicions that I would ever return to Idris, not since I have been living in obscurity for the past fifteen years._

 _At the same time, King Alfred has offered me yet another deal: he has promised me the loyalty of his troops—for when I finally decide to launch my attack on Stephen—on the condition that I marry my daughter Clarissa to his son Sebastian when they are of age._

 _There is no other way, of course, to put an end to Stephen's rule without aid from Alicante's troops, so I have willingly complied to his terms._

 _After much review, I have come to see it as a fruitful bargain, too. Through Sebastian and Clarissa's bond in marriage, Idris and Alicante will be unified, and this will only strengthen Idris's economy in the future._

 _Furthermore, should Jonathan fail to be the perfect king that Idris needs, there is still hope for Idris to thrive under Sebastian's rule. I see this new covenant as good progress, and I feel that I am much closer to achieving my goals._

 _As it is, I believe that Heaven is finally on my side now. According to my spies, Michael, who has been living in Alicante for the past seven years and a fanatic of the gladiator games, has been struggling with his gambling addiction. He is currently in jeopardy from the loansharks he had been associating himself with. I believe that this is the perfect time to reel Michael in on my plans and to regain his loyalty towards me._

 _It would be the perfect double blow to Stephen if his own best friend and the former General of his army were to betray him…and I want to inflict as much hurt on Stephen as I possibly can before I take his own life away from him._

 ** _October 18, 499_**

 _Michael has agreed to join me in my crusade to destroy Stephen Herondale, and I must admit, I am extremely pleased. After finding out about Michael's situation, I waited for three months before making myself known to him. It was amusing to watch him through his suffering—I imagine Stephen's would be even better._

 _When I finally approached Michael, he had been beyond desperate that he almost immediately agreed to my ultimatum. I only had to offer him the money he needed to tie up all of his loose ends with the loansharks for him to fall into my debt. Who knew that decades' worth of friendship could be easily bought over with money?_

 _With that said, I have in mind a very special duty for Michael. No one knows Stephen like Michael does… I believe that it is only fitting to put Michael in charge of planning our battle strategy for when we seize Idris._

 ** _December 31, 499_**

 _The end is nigh for Stephen Herondale and his reign in Idris. All of the plans have been finalized and the troops in Alicante have already been assembled and are waiting on my orders to move out to Idris. The first part of Michael's plan has already been put into motion. With his map of the various military bases in Idris, we have sent over the best of our soldiers on a covert mission to take down its defense system. Only then will the rest of the troops be able to infiltrate the kingdom…_

 _The sun has set, and I sense that the hour will soon be upon us. We will travel to Idris through the Forbidden Forest, where no Idrisian or soldier is bound to roam…where Stephen will never see us coming._

 ** _January 1, 500_**

 _Stephen Herondale is finally dead, and I can easily say that I have never felt this content before. I remember the look on that scoundrel's face just before I killed him—how he had looked at me in fear, how his eyes had silently begged me to spare him for the sake of his wife and his son. He deserved no mercy after all his past transgressions. Immediately after slaughtering Stephen, I ordered my men to dismember his body and to dump his remains at various locations within the Forbidden Forest—where he truly belongs. He deserved no funeral, much less a king's funeral… And he deserved to not have his own grave._

 _And as for Celine, I am thoroughly satisfied with the time that I had spent ravishing her. It was the best I had been with any woman, and I had enjoyed hearing her scream when I took her roughly. If only she had chosen me instead of Stephen… Maybe then I would have spared her instead of killing her in front of her weakling son, that disgusting spawn of a Herondale. I have made sure that his life will be an endless suffering, one which he will spend as a worthless slave—as his father should have been._

 _Yes, all my patience has finally paid off and everything is finally coming full circle. Everything is finally mine again. As new era beckons, I promise to bring new change to Idris—once I am officially crowned the new king tomorrow. After those loyal to Stephen have been eliminated for good, I will begin the construction of a brand-new arena, where I will put on the best gladiator games that the world has ever seen._

 ** _January 13, 502_**

 _I have been ruling over Idris for two years now, and so far, everything is going well. Jocelyn and the children will be riding over from Alicante this weekend to finally settle into the palace, and I have to admit, I am excited to reunite with my family once more._

 _Two years with rare visits in between have caused me to miss them. My marriage with Jocelyn might have been on the rocks the months prior to me leaving for Idris, but I do miss having her in my bed. She is a spitfire that even none of my mistresses can compare. I should like to persuade her into having more children with me—more sons, preferably to sustain the Morgenstern bloodline._

 _As for my children…I look forward to see how they have changed in my absence. I am hopeful that Jonathan has grown more mature… Clarissa, too. They are the new prince and princess of Idris, after all. I hope that they will live up to their titles._

 _On a separate matter, the construction work for the Arena Dumont is finally completed, and I will be hosting the first games a month from today. I am excited to watch my first games here, and I have high hopes that the Idrisians will enjoy the games as well as I do._

 ** _April 4, 502_**

 _The first gladiator games have only recently passed, and I have to say, it was an amazing success. My sentiments had been right—the Idrisians had loved the games and are looking forward to the next one! However, most of the kingdom's capital had been used up for the construction of the arena. There is an urgent need to replenish our resources if we're to organize the second games in time. I wrote to King Alfred early this week to seek his advice for a solution to the problem. He has suggested that I collect more taxes from the people and I agree. This is only but a small price to pay in contribution to a much bigger cause._

 ** _September 10, 505_**

 _Jocelyn has been hiding something from me for some time now. She thinks that I am completely oblivious to it, but I know better. I have my suspicions that somehow Lucian is involved in this as well. Lately, they have both been voicing out their disagreements about the way I have been ruling Idris, and for some reason, I have a feeling that they are up to something. I have dispatched spies to monitor Jocelyn's and Lucian's activities, and so far, they have informed me of Jocelyn's plans to meet Lucian at the abandoned tavern called The Hunter's Moon in Idris tonight. I intend to settle my unrest once and for all, and will arrange for my men to accompany me to their meeting tonight._

 ** _September 11, 505_**

 _Jocelyn is dead. My men and I had followed her to the tavern last night, and to my outrage, I discovered that she, along with Lucian and several other politicians in Idris, had been studiously conspiring behind my back for over a year now! They had been intending to overthrow me from the throne by organizing an uprising. And if that weren't enough, I also discovered that Jocelyn and Lucian had been having an affair since I left for Idris—almost five years ago!_

 _The whore insisted that she had never consummated her relationship with Lucian, but I don't believe her. Immediately after having my men to execute the traitors, I took it upon myself to kill Lucian and Jocelyn with my own blade. I saw no need to spare them their lives for their betrayal—regardless of the fact that she is-was the mother of my children. It makes sense why she had seemed so hesitant every time I came to seek her in her chambers—why she had failed to bear more sons for me. She and Lucian can enjoy having each other in the afterlife—I hope they rot in hell._

 _No one knows of this treachery. Lucian's body, along with the rest of the traitors that had been executed, had been carefully disposed of in the Forbidden Forest. I had then arranged for my men to move Jocelyn's body to a secluded alley in the market. This way, the people would assume that Jocelyn alone had been murdered whilst on her visit to the market. I will not have my name tarnished because of that woman's infidelity—and with my confidant, no less._

 _My children, on the other hand, have been mourning over the loss of their mother. Clarissa would do nothing but cry all day while Jonathan kept begging me to investigate her murder—I refused him. They do not need a mother who had been an unfaithful and defiant wife to me. Who knows what ideas she had been secretly planting in their heads to turn them against me, their own father? Her death is for the best._

 _My children may think that I am being unnecessarily harsh towards them, but in time, they will see that I am doing all of this for their own good. They need to learn to be stronger. To be more hardhearted. It is the only way to survive in this cruel word. Love will only make them weak…and I intend to extinguish every last bit of love out of their hearts._

 _At Jocelyn's funeral, Clarissa finally stopped crying long enough to ask about Lucian (I regret having made him my children's godfather). I had convinced her into believing that Lucian had moved away from Idris and will not be returning anytime soon; that news of their mother's death had been hard on him. She had turned away from me and cried again. It repulses me now to look at my own daughter—she looks too much like her whore of a mother. But Jocelyn's disloyalty has taught me an invaluable lesson…we can't give our complete trust to anyone, not to our confidants, not to our wives, not to our children…_

 _But onto more pressing matters, an important meeting shall be called to order soon to elect the new members of the Clave. To ensure no repeat of this treason, I will need to secure the loyalty—and most importantly of all, the fear—of my followers._

* * *

No more. Clary could read no more of Valentine's journal.

She dropped the leather-bound book to the floor, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Words from her father's journal echoed over and over again in her head…words which he had penned down with his own hand admitting that he was a murderer—that he didn't just kill Jace's parents, but her mother, Luke and several others as well.

 _How could he?_

She couldn't fathom the number of lives— _innocent_ lives—that had been so cruelly ended by Valentine's own hand. All because he wanted his way.

 _Oh God…_ Clary pressed her the heel of her palms against her face.

Jace was right. He had always been right about _him_.

She had a zealot, a demented monster for a father. A monster, who had never once shown his own flesh and blood, much less others, the tiniest morsel of love or compassion. A monster, who had only ever thought of himself, who would never feel remorse despite how many unforgivable sins he had committed. A monster, _who didn't deserve to live._

After all, how could any man with a right, sane mind be responsible for that much bloodshed and not possibly feel regret?

Tears of despair soon turned into tears of anger and resentment, and Clary's body began to shake furiously with rage.

Retrieving both the oil lamp and the journal from the ground, she brusquely rose to her feet. She was tempted to hurl the thing into a dark corner of the room—or into a fireplace just to watch it burn—but thought better of it.

She couldn't let her anger cloud her actions. In spite of everything, she needed to be _careful_. Her life, as well as her brother's, Izzy's and Magnus's, depended on it.

With a heavy breaths and even heavier heart, she set the journal down gently on its original place on the table. It glared at her accusingly—she glared back at it as if it were a rabid creature that needed to be put down.

A part of her subconscious was tempted to take the book to her brother and have him read every sordid detail about their father's cruel deeds, but she knew it to be another impossibility. Valentine would know then that someone had been snooping around in his study, and since he wasn't exactly daft, it wouldn't take him long to figure out that she was the culprit.

Who's to say that Valentine wouldn't hesitate to swing the axe on his own children's necks then?

 _If he could kill his own wife…_

Clary turned away from the journal as a wave of nausea rose within her. She urgently rubbed at her chest, willing the sudden urge to be sick away, then raised the oil lamp in her hand to shine on the clepsydra. Surprisingly, she found that she had only been in Valentine's study for just over an hour.

She still had _time_ —a lot more time to search for more evidence against Valentine.

Wiping the tears away from her eyes, Clary felt her heart race—however, this time, it wasn't because of fear, but a renewed sense of purpose, mixed with profound anger. Her heart ached and mourned for her mother, but the newfound knowledge about her father had given her every reason she needed to stand by her decision to bring Valentine down.

He needed to pay for his crimes.

If he didn't care that the woman he had slaughtered was his own wife, then she wouldn't care that he was her father. Their shared blood meant nothing to her—not anymore.

Tightening her grip on the handle of the lamp, Clary trudged towards the unexplored area of the secret room.

Much to her consternation, she was met with something that looked like a museum, or perhaps, more accurately put, a _tomb_ —with the absence of sarcophagi, thankfully.

Rows upon rows of shelves were filled with treasures and artifacts belonging to the Herondales—jewelry, paintings, vases and even weapons. She noticed, even from several feet away, that they had been left untouched for a long time. The amount of dust and cobwebs that blanketed every available inch of surface attested to it.

 _Why keep them?_ She wondered. _If Valentine resented the Herondales so much, then why bother keeping things that belonged to them?_ Her father didn't strike her as a sentimental man who cared for mementos—unless keeping the Herondales' prized possessions was a way for him to gloat about his victory. Now _that_ was not a far-fetched idea.

In the midst of her staring, a tall framed painting of a family portrait caught Clary's attention. She approached it with quiet curiosity, her trained artistic eyes roaming over every detail.

Three stunning characters starred in the picture: a middle-aged man who coincidentally was the spitting image of Jace, save for his sky-blue eyes— _Stephen Herondale_ , Clary guessed—followed by a woman with blond hair and golden eyes— _Celine_ —and lastly, a young boy, aged nine, with golden hair and an even richer shade of gold for eyes. _Jace._

Her Jace.

Clary smiled to herself as her fingers silently traced Jace's nine-year-old form. "I love you, Jace," she whispered to the painting, her tone wistful.

Just as she let out a sigh, a silver glint reflected off the light from the lamp, and Clary's eyes and feet dutifully followed the source.

When she was close enough, she picked up the circular object, carefully turning it over in her palm.

It was a ring. Or more specifically, it was the Herondale family ring.

A flock of soaring herons sat proudly on the circumference of the band, and on the center of it was the letter 'H'.

She enclosed the ring tightly in her fist, then snagged her bottom lip in between her teeth in thought. What were the odds of Valentine actually noticing something as small as a ring missing from this room?

 _It's a fifty-fifty chance_ , she subconsciously replied to her own thought, before shaking her head. _But I don't care_ , she thought as she pocketed the ring.

The Herondale ring belonged to Jace—he was the rightful owner, not Valentine. She was going to help him regain everything her father had stolen from him, starting with his family ring.

Before she could have second thoughts about her decision, Clary moved along the shelves again. The second time she paused to give something a long thoughtful look was when she saw a golden pendant, one she knew that must have belonged to Celine.

She hesitated, her fingers twitching with the desire to take the necklace to Jace—just to allow him to have a token of reminder of his mother—but between a necklace and a ring, the former had a higher chance of being detected as missing if she were to take it.

"Another time," Clary sighed as she averted her eyes from the pendant.

The third time she was tempted to take something—this time a dagger with the Herondale crest and Stephen's initials engraved onto it—she pinched her arm to remind herself to focus.

 _Lord, give me the strength to resist_ , she prayed before deliberately turning away from it.

But as soon as her eyes landed on another part of the shelf—right at the very edge of the room—her self-annoyance evaporated and Clary immediately froze.

A cold chill went through her spine and her emerald green eyes widened in pure horror. She pressed her hand against her mouth to push down the bile—or a scream—from rising in her throat. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

Because there, preserved in a glass jar, was Celine Herondale's head.

And her golden eyes were staring right into Clary's appalled green ones.

* * *

 _ **A/N: AND CUE THE EVIL LAUGHTER!**_

 _ **In all seriousness though, Valentine's a really sick psychopath. I think this chapter really encapsulates the extent of his insanity. Poor Clary. Poor Jace. Poor Jon. Poor Jocelyn. Poor Luke. Poor Celine. Poor Stephen. OK, you get the picture. There's a never-ending list of victims where Valentine is concerned.**_

 _ **As usual, so much was discussed in this chapter! Let me know your thoughts. I always love reading reviews :) Which reminds me, thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter.**_

 _ **p.s. to my old readers... I changed A LOT of stuff in the first scene, practically rewrote it even. It was initially more light-hearted with Clary pretending to be indisposed due to food poisoning, but when I was revising the story, I was like, "Nah, let's kick it up a notch." I mean, with Magnus involved in their plotting, the results are bound to be more dramatic, am I right?**_

 _ **I also added more details like Valentine having a string of lovers...the TV series 'The Tudors' inspired that bit, tbh. I also rewrote huge chunks of his diary and the last scene to sort of tighten the flow and clean up my sentence structures. Seriously, it annoyed me so much when I read my original work. I'm just so grateful that I had so much support from readers even back then. You guys are so amazing!**_

 _ **Alrighty, I'll stop here for now.**_

 ** _Until the next update...where Jace returns...review! (pretty pleaseee)... I'll try my best to send a snippet of the next chapter to my reviewers._**

 ** _Peace xoxo_**


	16. Chapter 15: Fall to Pieces

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 15: FALL TO PIECES**

 **October 3, 508 _(part III)_**

Clary stood frozen to the ground, paralyzed in pure, unadulterated shock. Her heart palpitated in her chest, fluttering at an unnaturally dangerous pace—like a ticking bomb that was seconds away from detonating.

Around her, everything was spinning, like a deadly whirlpool that was threatening to suck her into its rapidly swirling vortex and swallow her up, keeping her helplessly immobilized and captive while it continued its treacherous and violent path of destruction.

She couldn't breathe.

Her breaths came out in short, fast puffs—increasing faster, faster, _sharper_ , yet barely delivering the oxygen she needed to her lungs. It was as though someone had his hands enclosed around her throat in a vise-grip, constricting the walls of her windpipe, incapacitating her, choking her—asphyxiating all sense, all life out of her.

She couldn't move.

Her body was physically frozen to the ground like a statue. She clutched the handle of the oil lamp so tightly in her right hand that her knuckles turned white, matching the unnatural pallor of her translucent skin.

Somewhere within the deep recesses of her turbulent mind, she was screaming, willing her limbs to jerk, willing her fingers to twitch in even the slightest bit—but they wouldn't. They remained still, as did the rest of her corporeal self.

All Clary could manage to do was to stare wide-eyed in horror into Celine Herondale's golden eyes—those hauntingly beautiful golden eyes that looked so familiar, only because she had seen them on one other person: _Jace_.

They were beginning to burn a smoldering hole into her own emerald green eyes, charring and singeing her brain into a worthless piece of meat, keeping her incapacitated and firmly in place.

Time dragged on, the minutes crawling by as if by hours; but against all odds, and against the _impossible_ —just as she came dangerously close to drowning in the blustery waves of catatonia—her mind reeled back, pushing and shoving against the heavy currents.

A loud gasp pierced through Clary's lips and her chest rose and fell harshly in one sharp, sudden motion—almost as if her soul had been plunged back into her body forcefully. She doubled over, clutching her abdomen tightly as she inhaled the air around her as deeply as she could, letting the air fill her and revive her devastated mind.

 _Oh God, oh God, oh God,_ Clary thought, barely able to blink away the tears or the violent spasms threatening to overtake her body. She couldn't fall apart in here— _not now_.

 _Don't cry. Don't throw up. Don't pass out_ , she chanted the words fervently in her head. Her jaw shook slightly, forcing her to clench her teeth.

Upon regaining her stance, she quickly turned away from the horrifying image, all the while her mind continued to race at an uncontrollable pace. She willed Jace's voice to guide her, to tell her what to do next.

 _Calm down, Clary_ , his voice answered her. _Keep it together. Get out of there._

She knew that she was only imagining his voice—that he wasn't actually there—but pretending that he was helped her tremendously.

Urgently yet carefully, her body took charge. She retraced her steps, leaving everything as they were in Valentine's secret room. Her movements felt unusually graceful and bizarre, as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She didn't feel—she just _moved_ , heedless to the ongoing alarms in her head that warned her of her impending breakdown.

Once she had reentered her father's study, she pulled the bookcase back to its original position before she finally— _finally_ —backed away from the secret room and exited the study altogether.

The moment the door fell shut behind her, Clary's spell of calmness disintegrated. Her mouth fell open in a wide but silent scream as her body was suddenly racked with earth-shattering sobs. She could barely hold herself up, her knees wobbling furiously, forcing her to use the wall for support.

A tunnel of blackness tinged the edges of her vision, but before she could allow it to consume her, she did the one thing she had wanted to do from the moment she laid eyes on _those eyes_ … She ran.

Ran at such speed she never knew she was capable of.

Ran as if hell was chasing her and its flames were viciously licking her back.

Ran as if running was the only thing keeping her from losing her feeble grip on her sanity.

Ran to her sanctuary, to the one _person_ she knew she could trust.

She ran to Jace.

* * *

Jace was minding his usual duties in the stables again. He was grooming Wayfarer, laughing heartily as the brown horse nudged his head playfully against his side.

They had been at it for several minutes now, horsing around with each other in a way that was reminiscent of the good old days when they were both younger.

If soulmates could be found in animals, then Wayfarer was definitely Jace's. They were both equally hard-headed and tough nuts to crack, but underneath their sturdy exterior, they were sensitive, kindred spirits attuned to each other's emotions. When Jace was growing up, he had days when he felt like doing nothing but sulk, but his one true animal companion had never failed to cheer him up. He was Jace's most treasured gift.

"Will you stop that? I'm trying to work here," Jace said with a chuckle.

Wayfarer paid him no heed, and instead, nudged him again—hard enough to knock him off his balance.

Jace righted himself quickly and rolled his eyes. "Cheeky old boy. You know… Clary's going to be _extremely_ jealous if she sees us fooling around. We have may had our fun times together, but you need to remember that she's your master now, not me. You need to stop being so closed off to her or she might just decide to sell _you_ ," he lectured.

Wayfarer emitted a nicker which Jace interpreted to be his own version of a scoff.

"Stubborn horse you are—although, I'm not really in the position to say that, am I? We're both the same, aren't we?"

Wayfarer bobbed his head as if he were nodding.

"See? Of course you would agree with me on this. Cocky horse. It's a miracle how Clary puts up with you—with the both of us. Boy, isn't she something…"

Realizing much too late that he had been rattling away about Clary without actually meaning to, Jace sighed and leaned his head against Wayfarer's, his hands cupping the sides of the horse's face. His golden eyes drooped with sadness and exhaustion, the latter being an increasingly common side effect every time the redheaded princess occupied his thoughts.

Despite his clear conscience, his heart still weighed heavily in his chest. He had thought that after his heart-to-heart conversation with Clary last night, he had finally found the closure he needed…where their problems were concerned anyway. He had cleared up everything on his side and no longer held any secrets from her. The only one left to make a move now was Clary—if she even decided to make a move, that is.

Things had already been fragile enough between them before Jace's true identity and his intentions regarding Valentine came to Clary's knowledge. He couldn't blame her if she decided that he wasn't worth fighting for. What kind of a person would he be if he forced her into a decision she wasn't willing to make—a decision that would ultimately put her against _her own father_? Even if he was depraved and twisted in ways neither of them could fathom, Valentine was still her family. If their roles were reversed, would he have given up his family for Clary?

Truthfully, he didn't know the answer to that either. So how could _he_ expect her to turn her back on all that she was—all that she had—for _his_ sake? It would be neither fair nor selfless of him to put her in such a position, so after Jace had awoken that morning, he'd spent a good portion of his time trying to resign himself to his fate. He had tried to convince himself into believing that even if Clary didn't choose him, he wouldn't have lost everything.

After so many betrayals, perhaps being alone and independent was the answer he needed to grow stronger as person. He _didn't_ need Clary to weigh him down anymore. But _thinking_ it and _believing_ it were two completely different things. As much as he could try to accept the possibility of losing the girl he loved, Jace knew that he couldn't fool himself into believing that isolation or solitude was the solution to healing—not anymore.

And even though it had only been less than a day since he'd last met her, the mere act of waiting had proven to be very difficult for him. No amount of training—however hard he had pushed himself that morning—could distract him from thinking about her. Yes, he was still angry at the things that she had mindlessly spouted last night in Valentine's defense—he had every right to be—but good God above, did he _miss_ _her_.

"I really miss her, you know?" He voice the thought aloud.

Wayfarer stayed quiet this time, his eyes trained on Jace's intently as if he were truly listening.

"I worry about her…even if she isn't mine to worry about." He rolled his eyes. "I sound like a complete sap, but she owns my bleeding heart. I don't know what I'm going to do after Valentine… I've _implied_ that I would kill him regardless of whether she's on my side—but I don't want her to resent me for it." He emitted a long and weary sigh.

The silence that ensued was long and unbearable—not that he was hoping for Wayfarer to miraculously speak and give him advice on his relationship troubles. If that had actually happened, Jace would have probably collapsed of a heart attack.

"I used to think that reclaiming the throne and avenging my parents would be enough—but it's not. Don't get me wrong. I'm not changing my mind…at least not about Valentine. That… _coward_ will die by my hand if it's the last thing I'll ever do," he said with a tinge of fury in his eyes, as they usually did when he thought of his parents' murderer. "I'll make him pay for it. It's just that I… I want _Clary_ too," His voice cracked at her name.

If she chose to cut him out of her life for good, then how was he supposed to live without her? He would survive and move on eventually, but he doubted that the pain would ever vanish. Why did falling in love hurt so much? And of all people, why did he have to fall in love with _her_?

"You're lucky, you know," Jace said to Wayfarer, who was still watching him with intent curiosity. "To be a horse, I mean," he clarified. "You don't have to fall in love or have your heart broken. I guess if all else fails, at least I'll have you with me, won't I? We'll be two dashing bachelors riding off into the sunset…unless you have a secret mate and some kids you haven't told me about?" He raised his eyebrow at the horse who nickered in protest and shoved Jace away from him.

"Such a touchy horse," he muttered, finding a tiny bit of amusement at his lame attempt to create a joke at Wayfarer's expense.

But the universe had a way of injecting its own amusement. Just as Jace had persuaded himself into finding a new distraction, he heard _her_.

" _Jace…_ " Clary's voice, strained with tears, begged for his attention.

Jace's reaction was immediate. He turned around, his heart practically jumping in his chest, and when his golden eyes found hers, he felt his heart shatter with grief and worry.

The girl who stood before him now barely resembled the alluring princess he had come to fall in love with. Instead, in her place was a shadow…a bare glimpse of her former self.

Her fiery-red hair, which was usually bright and lustrous, was now a frizzy mess of tangles, and her ashen-white face was heavily splotched with tears. Her eyes looked the worst—they didn't even look at him with adoration or love. Instead, they held an extremely wild and disturbed look, as if she had just barely absconded from a deathly situation. But despite everything, she looked wary of him—wary that he would _reject her_.

"Come here, my love…"

Jace opened his arms widely for her, and Clary, to his welcome surprise, didn't even hesitate to run into them. She sagged weakly against him, and he followed her as she sank down onto the ground, loud sobs convulsing through her tiny body. He didn't know what was going on, but the only thing he knew was that he was never letting her go again.

* * *

Her dam broke.

The moment she was wrapped up in Jace's arms, Clary let herself go, the tears spilling from her eyes, the emotions choking her until she struggled to breathe.

Even then, she continued to cling onto him tightly, like a boa constrictor seizing its prey. She didn't want to let him go—she didn't want _him_ to let her go. No other place but his arms would ever be safe for her again. And if she wanted to keep _him_ safe, she was never letting him out of her sight. Not while her _evil demon of a father_ still walked this earth.

Over and over again, the fresh horror of what she had seen in Valentine's secret room haunted her, taunting her with every harsh breath she took. She wasn't just shaken. Clary was unnerved, distressed, perturbed, and quite possibly even unhinged.

Now that her mind had finally caught up with her and had fully registered the horror of her discovery, she was teeming on the verge of insanity. Each time she blinked or closed her eyes, she saw Celine's head and her wide golden eyes that reeked of a painful, torturous death—a death her father had caused.

Those eyes were now deeply ingrained— _imprinted_ on her mind. And what disturbed her the most was how alike they were to Jace's— _her Jace_.

 _He will be next_ , she heard Valentine's sneering voice. _Wouldn't it be nice…to have his head right next to his mother's? It's sure to be a family reunion that will make_ heads _turn…don't you agree?_

 _No!_ Clary screamed at her accursed father's voice.

But one suggestion was all it took for the monstrous image to lodge itself into her mind. She could see it now: Jace's head, bloodied and rotten in a glass jar, right next to Celine's. Where life once resided in his golden eyes, they were now gone—dead and blank. The image shook Clary to her core. She wanted so desperately to rip it out of her head and shred it into a million tiny pieces! She wanted it to leave her alone. She wanted it to stop!

Unwittingly, Clary's hands went to her hair, and she began yanking on her curls roughly, too overwhelmed with distress to even register the pain she was causing herself. She clenched her eyes shut tightly, shaking her head vigorously as the image began to consume her.

" _Stop! Stop!_ STOP!" She unconsciously screeched as more tears rolled down her face.

She violently she threw herself off of Jace's lap, crouching low against the floor of the stables, the screams still ripping from her throat. She didn't even notice the sheer panic in Jace's demeanor, or as his golden eyes widened helplessly in fear at her breakdown.

His hands covered hers as he tried to gently pry her hands away from her hair—worried that if he let her be, she was going to rip it from its roots—but she only held onto it tighter, refusing to let go.

"Clary, stop. Clary…please, stop. Please just stop! Stop!" Jace begged her desperately as she continued to resist his attempts of helping her.

He didn't know when it started, but the tears were already beginning to prick his golden eyes. He hated watching Clary like this. He hated not being able to help her. He hated _everything_.

After several long minutes of Jace's desperate, insistent pleas, alternated with Clary's dreadful cries, she finally stopped.

She just— _simply_ —stopped.

In a scary, composed state, she shifted herself, _gracefully,_ into a sitting position, and then, her entire body went taut and rigid like a mannequin's. She didn't move. Her dull, deadened eyes stared unblinkingly into space—into nothing. It was as if she wasn't even there anymore, lost within the crevices of her own mind.

Jace felt genuine fear grip him—even more so than when she had been screaming at thin air. "Clary?" He tried softly to shake her out of her frozen state.

She didn't respond to him at all.

"Clary…" Jace tried again more urgently, the gentleness and worry palpable in his voice. He cupped her cheeks, tilting her head towards his face and forcing her to meet his eyes.

At that, Clary seemed to burst into life again. She gasped and jerked away from him, leaping to her feet so quickly that Jace could do nothing but stare at her. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, she looked around the stables confoundedly, tiny crinkles on her forehead and in between her eyebrows—as if she were deeply confused, and had not even the slightest fraction of an idea of where she was and how she had even gotten there.

"Clary?" Jace asked in a soft, unsure voice.

She turned to face him, and much to his utter surprise, her emerald green eyes lit up and she smiled brightly at him—as if she had only realized that he was there and could not be happier to see him.

"Jace!" Clary cried out happily as she ran towards him and uncharacteristically tackled him to the ground, her sweet giggles filling the stables. "Oh, Jace, I've missed you so much!" She said, her voice sounding happy and melodic, just as he remembered it to be. Burying her face into his shoulder, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

Meanwhile, Jace's hands continued to lay still by his sides, his golden eyes wide with shock. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened, or rather, what _was happening_ to Clary. How was she acting so oblivious? As if she had completely forgotten about her breakdown? As if nothing had even troubled her?

Upset that he hadn't bothered to return her hug, Clary pulled away from him with a sulky pout. Her emerald green eyes stared at him accusingly…and with deep, genuine hurt.

Jace looked at her, completely baffled by what he was seeing. Did she really not remember a single thing that had just happened?

"Jace? What's wrong?" She asked him, sounding awfully dejected. Her face morphed into a sad, heartbroken look and her bottom lip quivered at his unbroken silence. "Don't you miss me? Don't you even love me anymore?"

Tears began falling down her face again, and that immediately stirred Jace to life.

"Oh, Clary, of course I love you," he said, meaning the words despite his own confusion at the situation. No matter the circumstance, he would always mean it when he said that he loved Clary.

She sniffled but her tear-stained eyes instantly perked up at his declaration. "You do?" She asked him in a hopeful tone as she hastily wiped the residual tears away from her eyes.

When her face was finally free from tears, Clary smiled at him expectantly, asking him to reaffirm that he did, in fact, love her. Jace's mouth fell agape at her drastic mood change, but he quickly nodded before she could launch into another sob.

"Oh, Jace…" Her sweet voice tinkled harmoniously in his ears. She cupped his face in her hands, still smiling broadly at him. "I love you too, Jace," she murmured in a weightless, airy tone.

Then, without warning, she yanked him down towards her and smashed their lips together. She threaded her fingers through his hair, burying them into his luscious curls as she kissed him with such passion and a roughness that felt… _foreign_ to Jace.

Still in shock, his lips stayed still against Clary's, unable to bring himself to respond. It felt wrong to. Clary was wrong—or more specifically, there was something completely and utterly wrong _with_ her. His Clary—his sweet, innocent, pure Clary—would never force herself onto him like this. He couldn't reconcile this person with the woman he loved; he felt that he was betraying her if he did. But how was he supposed to explain that to her?

As Jace continued to rack his brains for an explanation, he could feel Clary getting increasingly miffed with his refusal to kiss her back. He froze as she pulled away from him suddenly, anger marring her features. Before he could even blink, she raised her hand and smacked him hard across the cheek.

"God, Jace! If you don't love me anymore, then all you have to do is say it!" She screeched at him angrily. If Jace had thought that he couldn't get any more dumbfounded or astonished, then Clary's most recent outburst had certainly proven him wrong.

Climbing to her feet, she began to pace back and forth furiously. Jace watched her continue her rant while he knelt on the floor and silently nursed his red cheek.

"You listen here, Jace! I'm not some doll whose feelings you can toy with! If you don't want me anymore, then just say it to my face instead of leading me on! What, does it give you some sort of _sick pleasure_ to play with my feelings? Well, congratulations, Jace Herondale, because I—" Clary trailed off mid-sentence, looking disgruntled, her chest heaving rapidly with angry breaths. And as quickly as her temper had come, it passed, leaving her feeling empty and…confused.

 _Herondale?_ Why did the name Herondale sound so familiar to her? What had compelled her to call Jace that? Jace Herondale? She backed away from Jace, who did nothing but stare at her in confusion; she imagined that her expression almost exactly mirrored his.

Herondale. Herondale. Herondale. Herondale…

Clary knew that the name meant something—something important. It was just right there, right at the very back of her mind—just a few teeny, tiny inches away from her reach. There was no mistaking that there was something utterly significant about that name, but she just couldn't, for the life of her, bring herself to remember _why_.

"Clary?" Jace's voice came out in a nervous squeak.

If he were being completely honest with himself, he had never felt more scared of her—of anything actually—until this very moment. A million questions flooded his mind, all of which he found himself helplessly unable to answer. What on earth was happening to the girl he loved, the girl he had given his whole heart out to? _What_ , in God's name, had happened to her, to cause her to be like this?

A tear unknowingly escaped Jace's eye and slipped down his cheek. He wanted _his Clary_ back.

"Clary?" He called her again, his voice sounding hoarse and pained.

Hearing the plea in her beloved's voice, Clary finally removed her hands from her face—uncertain of when she had actually buried her face into them in the first place—and when her eyes landed on Jace, she gave him a look of genuine concern.

Even from where she stood, she could tell that something was wrong. Her Jace was _crying_ —not the obnoxious sobbing kind, but there were definitely fresh tears on his face.

 _But why?_

And what was he doing there, kneeling on the ground? Why was he looking at her like _that_ —like he was in pain and…fearful of her? What on earth did she do, to evoke such fear out of him, to make him feel scared _of her_?

"Jace?" Clary said hesitantly as she swayed slightly from her position.

Jace watched her anxiously, unsure of what to do next, unsure of what he should expect from her. Should he wait for her to come to him? Or should he approach her—in spite of knowing how volatile and mercurial she was? What was the right thing to do?

As they continued staring at each other, Jace noticed something distinct change in her eyes. Clary wasn't just looking at him with a mixture of anguish, fear, longing, or confusion… She was looking at him the way _his Clary_ usually did. With _love_.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and approached her tentatively. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, that he could _feel_ rather than hear his pulse reverberating in his eardrums. He wanted to run to her and crush her to his chest, to erase the look of doubt on her face, but he knew he needed to test the waters first. He couldn't risk literally running into the situation; he needed to be _careful_.

When Clary was finally within his reach, he extended his hand to her; she shakily took it and entwined their fingers together, gently squeezing his hand as if to reassure him. Jace smiled at her gesture and pulled her closer towards him. They took their time, taking small, careful steps towards each other. The act felt tame, _new,_ as if they were touching each other for the first time. They locked eyes, gold clashing with green, holding their breaths—until there was no more space separating them.

Jace stroked Clary's hair lightly and they both let out a sigh in unison, as if to say: "This is right…this _feels_ right." He pulled away, just barely, and planted a long, soft kiss onto her hair. His lips lingered on the crown of her head as he spoke. "I've missed you, Clary. I've missed you so much," he said, nuzzling his nose into her hair.

Clary pulled away from him but still remained within the circle of his embrace. "I'm right here, Jace. I'm right here," she said softly as she tenderly stroked his cheek—the cheek that she had inadvertently slapped during her outburst.

The realization that the bright red handprint on his cheek matched the exact size of _her hand_ had her green eyes widening in horror, and she quickly retracted her hand with a gasp. "Oh my God."

Jace lifted his own and rubbed his cheek. "Is it really that bad?" He asked her sheepishly.

Clary looked at him as if she were seconds away from combusting. "Does it matter? Jace—I… _I hurt you_ ," she said the words through grit teeth. "But when—how? I don't even—"

"You don't remember?" Jace asked her, cutting her off.

They both wore similar looks: puzzled frowns on their faces.

Finally, Clary shook her head. "What am I supposed to remember?" She asked confusedly. The more she thought of it, the more she realized that she really had no clue. For one, she didn't even remember how she had ended up here.

"What's the last thing you do remember?"

Clary thought long and hard about his question. "You," she finally said. "I remember you—kissing you," she blushed, evidently still torn over her desire for him and her desire to behave the way she was raised and taught to be: modest, reserved, chaste. "You telling me that you love me. Everything is just…a black void. Jace," she looked at him desperately, "What's going on? How did I even get here?"

"You came here on your own, love…" He trailed off, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

" _Magnus_ ," Jace whispered suddenly, causing Clary to frown.

"What about—"

"Clary, where does Magnus live?" He interrupted her again, urgency laced in his tone.

Clary furrowed her brows further at him in confusion. "Not very far from the palace. But I don't see how Magnus has anything to do with this. Jace…"

"Take us to him," he urged her. Without waiting for her reply, he grabbed her hand in his and led them towards the exit of the stables.

Clary struggled to keep with his long, quick gait, her own legs being considerably shorter than his. But Jace didn't seem to notice any of it at all. He only looked determined and resolute, like a man on a mission. Nothing—and especially not Clary's lacking ability to cover long distances within an efficient amount of time—could slow him down.

But as she pondered over it, she realized that Jace was being unreasonably brusque. She was confused and his attitude at the moment wasn't helping her. Why wasn't he telling her anything? Why were they going to Magnus's?

"Jace, wait. Stop." She dug her heels into the ground, and yanked her hand back from his.

Jace reluctantly complied, and turned to face her with a sigh. He was about to open his mouth to speak, but this time, she cut him off.

"Jace, why are we going to see Magnus? _What's going on?" She_ asked with a slight waver to her tone. She needed to know what was going on. She needed _him_ to tell her because, truth be told, everything that was happening was beginning to scare her and he was the only person she knew she could trust to give her the answers that she needed.

Jace ran his hands through his curls, a pained look in his eyes. "You—I don't know what's going on, Clary," he cowardly shook his head, hoping that she wouldn't push him to explain further.

But looking into those green eyes, those green eyes that, despite everything, held that firm stubbornness in them, Jace knew Clary wasn't going to budge. She would stand here all night until he gave her what she wanted…and in this case, she wanted an explanation that he wasn't even sure he could give—not without adding more questions to her existing pile of questions.

 _What is going on?_ Other than obvious being Clary's mental breakdown, Jace didn't know. _What happened to Clary's memory?_ Jace didn't know. _What happened before she came to the stables, that triggered her breakdown in the first place?_ Again, Jace didn't know. So really, he didn't know _a lot_ of things.

"Tell me what you _do_ know," Clary said as if having heard his silent conversation with himself. "Please."

Jace opened his mouth and closed it, the gesture repeating itself several times before he finally found the ability to speak. "I…I was grooming Wayfarer and then you…you came in here, looking like…like you've been through _hell_ ," he told her in a choked voice. "And then, you…you broke down in my arms. You cried, and then all of a sudden, you started yanking your hair and screaming for something to stop."

Jace swallowed hard as he looked at Clary, tears gathering in both their eyes. "And then, after that, you just froze. Like you were…stunned. I—I tried to make you snap out of it, and when you did, you looked as if you had no clue about where you were and how you got here. And then I called you—you lit up like a child when you saw me and then ran straight into my arms," he said, his voice straining further. He blinked and a tear fell unchecked down his cheek.

"And then afterwards, you went into this whole mood swing," Jace said heavily. "Within the course of five minutes, you went from being happy to being upset with me, to being happy again and then you were angry, and then—and then, you became _you_ again."

Their eyes locked, both of them radiating with fear and helplessness.

"I don't know what happened, Clary. I just don't know," he muttered, both sounding and feeling small. He averted his gaze to the ground, as if disappointed with himself for not being able to give them both the answers that they wanted—

That was a complete understatement, of course. Jace despised himself for not knowing, for being so helpless. How was he supposed to help the love of his life if the circumstances were completely beyond his knowledge and control?

* * *

Seeing Jace like that, almost as if he were in actual pain because of her, Clary felt her heart twinge with guilt. And after hearing about her crazy episode—one which she couldn't, however hard, tried to recall—she found fear and panic creeping its way into her heart. Although, considering that unpredictability always seemed to follow her like a shadow, she knew that she shouldn't have been entirely shocked.

For a long time she had known that it was only a matter of time before things really got out of hand; that the trauma from her father's punishments would eventually catch up with her and she succumbed to _insanity_.

The only thing that actually gave her a semblance of soundness was Jace. Since he came into her life, she had looked to him for refuge. But was it fair for her to force him to shoulder _her_ burden? She was damaged goods while Jace was simply that—good.

He deserved someone better than her, someone who could complement him in every way that she couldn't. And besides, how could anyone truly love a crazy person? When things eventually got worse, who was to say that he wouldn't abandon her and leave her to suffer all by her lonesome?

But if she ceased to _exist_ …she would be doing them both a favor…she would be able to save them from the inevitable heartache.

" _Kill me, Jace_ ," she rasped out as more tears flowed down her cheeks. "Please. I don't want to live anymore. I don't…"

Jace looked at her in shock, but soon enough, that shock evolved into anger. "Are you insane?" He demanded sharply, causing Clary to cry harder.

 _Wrong choice of words, you insensitive idiot_ , his conscience reproached him.

"That's exactly why I want you to kill me, Jace!" She yelled, irrationality clouding her brain. "I don't want to live, knowing that I can turn crazy at any time…I'd rather die. I'd rather you just end my life before I have to go through that again. I'm not stupid. I know how much it hurt you. _I don't want to hurt you_." Her voice lowered to a whisper—a desperate plea.

Her death would be a blessing for so many others, she thought. Her brother would no longer have to put up with a whiny, defenseless sister. Isabelle would be relieved of her obligatory role as a handmaiden and friend to her. Simon would be able to find a companion who would be able to appreciate him better. Magnus would be able to lead a calmer and more peaceful life without having to attend to her…mishaps every now and then. And most of all, her father would have one less mouth to feed…one less hopeless daughter to humiliate him. She would be doing everyone a great service.

"Listen to yourself, Clary. Do you even realize what you're asking of me?" Jace's acerbic tone drew her attention back to him. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him before, his golden eyes swirling with a mixture of anguish and rage. "Life and death is not a matter for either of us to decide. We are not gods," he told her.

She sniffled but didn't say anything in return. When she dropped her gaze, he tucked two fingers underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Look at me, Clarissa. If you're so intent on the idea of death, then why don't you," he said slowly, "just take a dagger and stab me in the chest with it repeatedly? It would be the same thing as you asking me to kill you."

Clary flinched, her bottom lip trembling. "Don't say that… How could you even—"

"And how could _you_ ever ask something like that from me?" She finally glanced up at him, taking in the hurtful expression on his face. "Why can't you see that you saying that is hurting _me_ a lot more than you can possibly imagine?" He asked her in a strangled voice.

"I didn't mean to…"

"Yes well, understand this, Clary—" He cut her off. " _I. Love. You_. So there is no way in hell I'll ever bring myself to ki— _harm_ you. Don't you dare ask anything like that of me ever again, do you hear me?"

Guilt coursed through her again, and Clary could only manage a single nod. She didn't want Jace to be angry with her. What if his anger turned into hate? She didn't think she could handle him hating her.

Much to her surprise, Jace only stroked her cheek, his touch feather-light and gentle. His callused thumbs then slid to the skin beneath her eyelids, wiping away the tears there.

"I love you, Clary," he said softly, in such a loving tone that Clary looked up at him in awe. His golden eyes were warm, like honey, that she felt as though he was caressing her with his eyes.

How did she ever be so lucky as to end up with someone like Jace, who loved her despite her imperfect self? There were so many other women in the world for him—more mature, more intelligent, more beautiful, and all around _better_ than she was—but he still picked her: sixteen-year-old naïve Clarissa Adele Morgenstern who had zero experience when it came to men and relationships. She found it completely baffling.

"Why?" She accidentally asked aloud.

Jace looked taken aback by her response—clearly having expected her to answer by saying that she loved him too—but he quickly recovered and answered her question anyway.

"Because you make me into a better man…because you see me for _myself_ ," he said. "Despite our…disagreements and your stubbornness, you don't push me to be anything other than myself—that's why I love you."

Clary smiled, and was about to respond to him in kind, when all of a sudden, she felt the block on her mind—the barricade that had been steadily repressing her memories of the night's events— _break_. Her memories rushed back into her in a single violent surge and she sharply pulled away from Jace with a gasp.

Stumbling backwards, she landed harshly on the hard tiled floor of the stables, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through her tailbone. But her pain was instantly forgotten when the onslaught of memories flashed through her mind.

She remembered everything.

The secret room in Valentine's study. Valentine's journal recounting all of his dirty secrets. The treasure belonging to the Herondales. The Herondale portrait. The Herondale ring. Celine's necklace. Stephen's dagger. Celine Herondale's _head_ preserved in a glass jar, and the haunting look in her _eyes_ … Her wide golden eyes that resembled Jace's, lashing out at her of the horrors of her father's crimes.

She remembered _everything_ —and the trauma of it all was getting too much for her to bear.

She needed to forget again. She needed to erase those wretched memories from her brain. She needed to wipe out those images from her head—

 _Wait a second…head? Celine's head! Celine's dismembered head! Celine's golden eyes attached to her head. Her golden eyes, bright like Jace's…what if it were Jace's head in that jar instead? Jace's head, next to his mother's…a whole collection of heads! Herondale heads!_

Clary's frenzied thoughts flew, one after the other. She felt her mind straining as it continued to run a mile a minute, viciously working overtime. It was all getting too much for her to hold on _._ And it hurt. _God, it hurt so much._

Clary wanted the pain to go away. She needed the pain to go away.

Clamping her hands over her ears, she tucked her head into her knees, rocking back and forth vigorously as image after image seized her mind.

Around her, Jace continued to scream and plead with her to fight against her mind—to stay with him, to come back to him—but she could not bring herself to listen to him anymore.

Clary felt her mind give out, and she collapsed tiredly into Jace's arms. But before her emerald green eyes fell shut, she caught a glimpse of a worried pair of beautiful eyes—

Jace's golden eyes.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Poor Clary and Jace. Just when they reunite, something else happens to prevent their happiness...**_

 _ **But as my old readers would know, a rainbow is just around the corner for our favorite couple, so that's something to look forward to, guys :)**_

 _ **So, uh, I didn't change much from the original version of this chapter. Just added the bit in about Jace interacting with Wayfarer, to make him a little more endearing. I just love how great he is with animals, don't you?**_

* * *

 _ **Review! Pretty please. The more you guys review, the faster I would be tempted to update. I have a goal to reach at least 87 reviews with this chapter, so please, spare me a few minutes of your time to write me your feedback/thoughts in general.**_

 _ **And while we're at it, don't forget to follow/favorite this story! As always, your support is greatly appreciated :)**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	17. Chapter 16: Stronger Together

_**Author's Note: WHOA. Bet you didn't see an update coming this fast huh? Well, that's what happens when you guys motivate me by reviewing :D BTW, if anyone missed the update of the chapter before this one, do go back to read it or you'll be somewhat lost...**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 16: STRONGER TOGETHER**

 **October 3, 508 _(part IV)_**

"How is she?" Jace halted in his frantic pacing as Magnus reentered the living room. His blond hair was mussed from the countless amount of times he had run his hands through them, and his face was drawn and pale with worry.

"Not good," Magnus said with a long weary sigh. He sank down into the vacant purple couch as if all of his energy had been drained from him. "She's still unconscious for now, but from what I can deduce, she's suffering from trauma—again. Only this time, it's much, much worse…"

"You're saying that this has happened before?" Simon— _yes, Simon_ —interrupted. He was seated on a measly brown stool, one that appeared startlingly out-of-place in Magnus's glamorous and expensively decorated apartment.

Jace looked at the brown-eyed servant with something akin to irritation. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Simon's presence. If it weren't for the servant's coincidental visit to the stables, mere minutes after Clary had passed out, he would have been stuck with the unconscious princess, helpless and clueless as to where Magnus Bane lived.

But aside from the tiny speck of gratitude he felt for the rat-boy's assistance, he didn't exactly harbor any warm feelings for him. For one, Jace didn't like that he was best friends with Clary when he suspected that he fostered more-than-friendly feelings for her.

And secondly, he despised the judgmental looks Simon gave him every time they were in each other's presence. Granted, the looks were often thrown his way when Simon believed that he wasn't looking, but he knew. _Jace always knew_. That, and the former's usual haste to leave the stables just to escape his company—not that he longed for it either—was also another clear indication of his aversion towards him.

But Jace could tolerate all of that. He was thick-skinned enough to endure the deprecating looks and whispers of others. What he had found completely unacceptable was Simon's accusation when he discovered Clary lying unconscious in his arms. The barrage of insults he had spewed…coupled with the impulsive conclusion he came to that Jace had hurt Clary— _his_ Clary—nearly drove him mad enough to strangle the boy.

"Yes," Magnus answered, cutting off the undoubtedly scathing response that Jace had been itching to fire.

"When?" Simon asked, his thick eyebrows furrowing.

"The hell does it matter when?" Jace growled, his fists clenching. "It doesn't concern you. None of this concerns you. Why don't you just run along to whichever hole it is you usually go to when I'm on stable duty? You can come back when it's time for me to leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," Simon glared at Jace, the accusation still plain in his eyes. "And between the two of us, I deserve to be here more than you do. I'm her _friend_."

"Oh, joy. Her _friend_ ," Jace repeated mockingly. "You must be so precious to her if she hardly speaks anything of you," he retorted, unable to curb the sudden surge of jealousy.

Simon instantly bristled at Jace's words. "And how would _you_ know that? You're just a gladiator for God's sake! Stop trying so hard to fit yourself into this situation. This isn't about you. And as far as Clary is concerned, you have _nothing_ to do with her!"

"SHUT. UP." Jace's tone was short and clipped, his anger simmering just beneath the surface of his feverish skin. His glare was icy sharp and intense, that if the definition of the expression 'if looks could kill' were to be taken literally, Simon would already be dead by now. But at least the latter had the audacity to look afraid as he shrunk uncomfortably into his seat. "I _love_ Clary—and likewise, the feeling is mutual for her. So let me just say this once: I have _everything_ to do with her."

Simon gaped at him in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as if he had been robbed of the ability to speak.

"If you two _gentlemen_ mind…" Magnus's glance switched between Jace to Simon and back again, his eyes flashing with annoyance and the slightest hint of amusement. "No wait—my mistake. You can hardly be called gentlemen with all this primitive, troglodyte-like behavior. If you want to keep up with this useless banter, you can leave. You're both causing me a headache, and Clarissa doesn't need any of this when she wakes up."

Neither men moved from their spots, though Simon looked noticeably flushed, his ears stained pink with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," Jace finally said. He imagined that he looked no better than Simon did; his neck felt unbearably hot as he realized the weight of the words he had senselessly let slip in the spur of his rage. He had basically admitted that him and Clary were in a _relationship_ —a secret, forbidden relationship that could potentially destroy them both if Valentine knew.

"I already know about you and Clary," Magnus said in a measured tone. Jace found the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat hard to swallow. "She didn't tell me per se—I just sort of guessed it and then you confirmed it. Still, I knew it was only a matter of time before the pair of you got together. I've seen the way you two looked at each other in the cells," he said, referring to the week he spent tending to Jace after Sebastian's whiplashing, "Discreet isn't really your forte, Shadowhunter. Neither is it Clary's."

Jace coughed. He caught Simon's eye—just briefly—before the servant boy looked away, sheepish but thankfully silent. "You were saying about Clary, Magnus?" He tried changing the subject. Magnus gave him the _I-know-what-you're-doing_ look but mercifully obliged.

"What you saw earlier, with Clary's hysterical episode, was her subconscious's attempt to repress her memories," he explained in a neutral, professional tone. "It's one of the common responses that a victim picks up on when placed in situations of extreme distress. Sometimes the memory of a disturbing experience gets too much, too overwhelming, that the victim tries as much as possible to withdraw himself, or in this case, _herself_ , from remembering it. It's something like short-term amnesia, whereby the subconscious tries to block out memories that it considers to be psychologically dangerous for her, or that could possibly trigger the memory of the actual disturbance."

"But that still doesn't explain her emotional mood swings," Jace said in a low tone, his voice sounding hoarse and tired. His bloodshot eyes subconsciously darted towards the direction of Magnus's bedroom—where Clary was currently resting in—before he returned his attention to his hands. They were shaking.

"Emotional mood swings are one of the many side effects of trauma," Magnus answered.

"Is it…permanent?" Jace asked hesitantly. He tilted his head and looked at Magnus, pain, and somewhere deep down, _hope,_ stirring in his features.

"No…not really," the doctor answered, a thoughtful look in his yellowish-green eyes. "But it might take time. Honestly, it all depends on Clary. The sooner she opens up about what actually happened to her, then the easier it will be for any of us here to help her. But as long as she closes herself off, as long as she forces herself to push it down, her recovery process would be a lot harder. She needs to be brave enough to face it at one point in order for her to cope. Even then, it's complicated. No one just bounces back from a trauma without experiencing any of its side-effects in the future." He gave Jace a look of empathy. "Like I said, only time will tell."

Jace sighed, the hope melting from his eyes. _Time_ —God, how he hated the word. Time was a tricky thing. How much time were they talking about? _Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?_ With their precarious situations, they didn't exactly have the luxury of time.

"God, why is this happening?" Jace muttered underneath his breath.

Magnus shook his head. "I don't understand how it could have turned out like this. It should have been _easy_ —"

"What are you talking about?" Simon asked, finally breaking his vow of silence.

Jace threw him a glare over his shoulder before turning to Magnus, his expression confused. "Do you _know_ what happened to Clary?" He asked, his tone wary.

Magnus's expression turned grim. "I don't know the specifics of what caused her episode, but earlier today…" The eccentric doctor began to fill them in on the occurrences that had supposedly taken place earlier that morning, from the moment the Morgenstern prince had paid him an unexpected visit in his home and the two had concocted their 'brilliant' plan, to the moment Magnus left the palace after Clary set off to carry out her mission.

Jace found himself gripping with a myriad of emotions—shock, awe, hope, then finally, he settled with rage. Belligerent, rancorous and vicious _rage_.

"Let me get this straight… You and Isabelle helped Clary to administer this 'potion' to _everyone_ in the palace and then the two of you left her to search her father's study—ON HER OWN?" His voice climbed several octaves higher.

"Don't use that tone on me," Magnus huffed. "Clary was adamant that she went on her own. She couldn't be reasoned with. She told us that if she needed help, she would find us. She insisted that it will be _fine_."

"Well, that went just brilliantly, didn't it?" Jace couldn't believe it. Of course, he commended the ingenuity behind their ideas—and Magnus's innovation at such short notice—but he couldn't believe that they would leave Clary to do the most crucial task unaided. He knew that Clary could be extremely stubborn when she wanted to be, but how could they have listened to her without anticipating that things could go awry?

Granted, the cause of her trauma still remained a mystery to all three of them, but judging from her response, he knew that it must have been something completely awful and disturbing. In which case, he couldn't help but think of the what-ifs; what if Clary hadn't been able to get herself out of Valentine's study and escaped to the stables to find him? What if the potion had failed to work and Clary had been caught, or worse, attacked?

"Don't get all high and mighty with me, Shadowhunter. If you're going to start this blaming game, then why don't you point that finger at yourself?"

"I'm a gladiator, Magnus, or have you forgotten? If I had the liberty to do as I please, I would have been there with Clary in a heartbeat!" Jace retaliated angrily. He gripped a fistful of his own hair and glared at the doctor. _The audacity of this man…_

"You seem to be doing pretty well on doing as you please…" Magnus scoffed with an indignant flourish of his hand. "Considering that you're here and not at the stables where you're _supposed_ to be."

"You can thank the stupid guards for that," Jace muttered begrudgingly. "Corruption, blind threats and ill discipline seems to be a recurring theme under Valentine's rule. I think you can find my assigned guard at the tavern somewhere with his buddies. But you would already know that, wouldn't you? After all, you spend most of your nights with Alec without his guard around…" Jace knew it was a low jab from the way Magnus narrowed his eyes at him.

"That's a dangerous accusation you're making, Shadowhunter—"

"Where _is_ Alec, Magnus?" Jace tilted his head to the side, as if the Asian man hadn't uttered a single word. At the back of his mind, he knew that he was running off-tangent. His parabatai of all people had absolutely nothing to do with the current situation, but he was furious with Magnus and he needed a way to vent his anger at him.

"He's out running my errands," Magnus replied in between gritted teeth.

"This is a pointless argument," Simon boldly cut in. "Who is _Alec_? We were talking about _Clary_ …you know, short redhead, currently passed out in one of the bedrooms?"

"Thank you for the reminder, Lewis," Jace snapped brusquely. Where his hands had been previously shaking with fear and worry, they were now shaking with the violent urge to break the servant's neck like a twig. What was _he_ still doing here?

"What's your problem?" Simon asked, looking offended.

" _My problem_ ," Jace retorted, still feeding from his irrational burst of anger, "is that you can't seem to keep your mouth shut. I'm pissed— _well and truly_. I'd rather you not speak!"

The moment his tirade dissolved, Clary's loud screams pierced the air, like a metaphorical axe bringing an end to the simmering tension in the room.

All three men stiffened and glanced towards the direction of the bedroom where the scream had come from. It was loud, clear and deafening, all despite the thickness of the wooden door that separated them.

Jace immediately broke out of his antagonistic stupor and hurtled towards the room, not caring at all about what either Magnus or Simon thought of him. All he knew was that he needed to get to Clary; he needed to make sure that she was okay.

As soon as he burst through the door, his golden eyes instantly fell on the redheaded princess, who was thrashing around on the bed and screaming violently in her sleep. Rushing to her side, Jace shook her vigorously by the shoulders, determined to wake her up and to save her from whatever nightmare that was tormenting her.

"Clary, wake up! Clary! CLARY! WAKE UP!"

Her eyelids finally flew open as she sat up with a loud gasp, her face painted red with tears. He watched as her eyes darted frantically from one corner to another as if she was trying to determine where she was, her expression turning from bewildered to downright scared.

Finally, her emerald green orbs landed on him and stayed on him.

" _Jace…_ " Her tone was disbelieving and sounded scratchy like sandpaper.

"Right here, Clary. I'm right here," Jace whispered to her. He raised his hand and cupped the side of her face, where the skin was burning hot and wet with her tears. She closed her eyes as a shaky sob pierced her lips.

"You were gone…you were…I saw…Valentine…your head…the jar…was too late…"

He hushed her senseless ramblings and cupped her face, hating the pained expression she was wearing. "Look at me, Clary. I'm right here."

When she shook her head and refused to open her eyes, he took her shaking hand in his, and placed it on his chest, pressing it firmly against his beating heart. If possible, he could feel his heartbeat pound twice as stronger than it usually did, all because of her touch.

She finally opened her eyes and looked at him, her gaze appraising his facial features; her emerald green eyes cleared and she moved her attention from his face to their enjoined hands as they rested on his chest.

"You feel that? That's real. I'm real," he murmured, softly kissing her cheek. Her sigh of relief and awe didn't go unnoticed by him. "I'm alive. I'm okay. And so are you."

"You're okay."

"I'm okay," he repeated, his tone soft and calming, as if he were talking to a child.

Clary's bottom lip quivered as she shakily raised her hand to stroke his cheek, her eyes drinking him in as if she meant to memorize him.

" _Real_ ," she whispered to herself. Another careless tear slipped down her cheek, and Jace was about to say something when she literally threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. He had thought that his embrace would stymie her tears, but instead it only seemed to make it worse. Loud, aching sobs tore past her lips as she shook and trembled and fell apart in his arms.

"Shh, it's okay, Clary. Please…it's okay."

Not for the first time that night, he didn't know what to say or do to calm his inconsolable princess. The good news was that she seemed to be aware of what was happening, but at the same time, she was so deeply buried in her grief and shock of what had happened to her earlier to allow him to actually comfort her.

"No! Don't let go!" Clary screamed when he momentarily loosened his hold on her. Jace had only meant to adjust his position, afraid that he was suffocating her, but she held onto him tighter, their chests pressed together, her arms looped firmly around his neck.

He winced at the feeling of her tears creating a growing puddle on his neck, not because it disgusted him, but because it pained him to see her like this. It also didn't escape his conscious mind that if she were 'herself', she wouldn't be behaving anything like this.

 _This is my fault_ , he realized as he recalled the information Magnus had told him earlier. _My getting angry with Magnus was just a void excuse to cover up the truth…none of it was Magnus's or Isabelle's fault for leaving Clary on her own. It's mine. My fault. She would have never gone around snooping in Valentine's study if it weren't for me. I never should have pushed her to do it. It's all my fault._

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he muttered the apologies into her disheveled red hair.

 _God, we're a horrible mess_ , he thought fleetingly. He hated to think of Clary as 'broken' but recent events had made it impossible to ignore the chance that she might very well be—that she might never be able to recover.

As for him…he had always been broken. Watching his mother raped and murdered before his very own eyes had done that for him. Clary had been his only saving grace, but he had managed to destroy her as well. If he hadn't persuaded her into looking for evidence against her own father, she would have been okay…not perfect, but _okay_.

 _I wreck everything I touch. Even the girl I love_ , he thought, slumping in despair to his own self-deprecating guilt.

"Clary," Simon's voice invaded their bubble of privacy. He had barely stepped past the threshold of the bedroom when Magnus grabbed his arm to halt his progress.

Jace glared at him from over Clary's shoulder; she hadn't even bothered to spare her _friend_ a glance.

"Leave them alone, Simon," Magnus said in a stern voice, almost warning him.

The doctor didn't even appear to look angry at Jace anymore. His eyes bore no grudge or resentment of their earlier argument. Instead they gleamed with understanding and seemed to say: _I forgive you._

Jace returned his look with an awkward, barely there smile.

"He can handle her," Magnus added. "Let's go."

"But Clary…" Simon argued uselessly.

"Clary doesn't need you. She needs _him_." Magnus tilted his head towards Jace. "Let's _go_."

Simon looked as if he wanted to continue protesting but the moment he saw the harsh and unrelenting look on Magnus's face, he gave up and let the doctor steer him out of the room.

Jace sent Magnus a grateful nod of thanks when their eyes met, and then the door fell shut, leaving him to deal with the princess alone.

* * *

Clary felt pathetic.

She wanted to do so many other things except to cry and prove herself to be a weakling who was undeserving of Jace's love and patience. She wanted to be brave and stoic—to explain _everything_ she had unearthed in her father's study instead of bawling her eyes out like a helpless little babe. But despite her attempts, the tears kept on pouring, and her sobs kept on bursting through her tired, aching chest.

Her rational mind knew that she was being irrational. She was weeping for Jace as if he were actually dead, when in fact, he was _there_ —breathing and undeniably warm in her arms. Why couldn't she ever stop crying?

"Shh, shh…it's all right, Clary. I'm here…We're both okay," Jace shushed her. Still, she sobbed harder. "Please tell me what's wrong. Don't shut me out. Please…just tell me what's wrong. You don't have to face any of this on your own...let me help you...let me be there for you... _let me_ …"

Clary closed her eyes and paid attention to the sound of Jace's voice, allowing the rich tenor of it to envelop her and cocoon her like a warm blanket. She had always loved the sound of Jace's voice. It fascinated her how it could sound so deep and masculine but still manage to come across as sweet, gentle and loving.

It was an interesting juxtaposition, much like the person himself. Jace, a man known for his skill in the arena, who had _killed_ other men, was far from the stereotypical image of a cold-blooded creature. Despite himself and his rough past, he managed to retain his humanity—something Clary had always admired him for.

 _He didn't choose this life to kill_ , she thought. _It doesn't matter how much blood he's spilled. He's still so good and pure._

Where her father had only managed to leave a trail of destruction in her life, Jace had restored her faith and belief in mankind. He was no angel, for she wasn't blind to his flaws and knew enough of his sins to be certain that he was imperfect, but he was truly a _godsend_ , the bright spark of light in her world of darkness.

And right now, right in that very moment, despite all the ugliness plaguing her mind, Clary felt safe in Jace's arms. She felt safe each time she felt the soft rumble of his chest against her cheek as he spoke to her; and despite what she believed in, she even felt safe from his touch. No other person alive could grant her that feeling, or the rest of the feelings that came along with the safety: the love, the comfort, the trust, and above all else, the _hope_ —hope, no matter how faint, that she would be able to get through this entire ordeal.

 _Ordeal? Is that what you make out of this?_ A menacingly shrill voice demanded, causing Clary's heart to almost lurch out of her chest.

As quickly as the feeling of peace and security had visited her, it vanished, leaving Clary—once again—a fumbling mess. She trembled furiously in Jace's arms, pathetic whimpers escaping her lips as the gruesome image of Celine's head began to manifest itself in her mind without an invitation.

Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she fiercely shook her head, shoving the unwanted image away to make room for that tiny shred of lucidity as Jace's achingly desperate and persistent whispered words tried to make a reach for her through the heavy pandemonium that was her mind.

" _Stay with me, Clary._ " His words sounded so muffled to her ears at first—or at least, to her, they sounded so distant, as if she was hearing him from underwater, where the waves were continuing to pull her under— _deeper and_ _deeper_. "Stay with me…please. Don't leave me again," he begged her with so much pain and need in his voice.

Almost like a powerful incantation, the single plea chased away the bedlam in Clary's mind, her ceaseless shaking dissipating into calm stillness. She closed her eyes, hugging Jace tighter to her, allowing his voice to, once again—albeit momentarily—be her focal point, the tether that kept her mind bound to sanity.

She felt liberated, _almost_ , if not for the voices of doubt—voices she recognized to be her own—that rose in her mere minutes after she had allowed herself to feel peace.

What if she were anything at all like Valentine? And Jace…would Jace still love her if he knew about what her father had done?

"I love you. Always," he said as if knowing her fears.

 _Always?_

 _But always is relative, isn't it? How long would 'always' last if he were to find out out what Valentine had done to his parents…to his mother? Would he still promise me always? Could I ever fault him if he were to hate me and leave me forever?_ The same thoughts and questions replayed in her mind. She answered the last question almost immediately: _No, of course I won't blame him. If our roles were reversed, I might hate him too. How could he possibly want_ me _—the daughter of an accursed, sick psychopath?_

Clary curled her fingers tighter around the front of Jace's tunic. _Do I keep it to myself? Or do I tell him the truth, at the risk of him leaving me?_

 _The_ real _question here is, will you be able to live with yourself with the knowledge you now hold about his mother?_ Her conscience retaliated.

Her answer was a single word with two letters: No. Of course she couldn't.

She couldn't be selfish and dishonest in a relationship that meant so much to her, to a man whom she loved in a way that she had never loved anyone else before. Regardless of the consequences, she knew that she couldn't bury her secrets from him. If anything else, Jace deserved to know.

Without quite realizing it, Clary's tears had slowed and her sobs quieted. The only sounds that could be heard were her breathing and Jace's…and his humming. It was a deep-sounding bass, and she relished in the vibrations as it made as it moved through his chest.

As the fog cleared in her head, she recognized the tune almost immediately—it was a lullaby she had sung to him once, on a dark night surrounded by the metallic smell of blood as she sat in Jace's cell, his head perched helplessly on her lap. Not nearly enough time had passed between then and now, but so many things had changed between them. For one, they now knew of each other's pasts, and despite everything, they loved each other as though they had been together for years.

Clary slowly pulled her head away from his chest. At the back of her mind, she saw the images of her discoveries in Valentine's secret room. She saw clearly Celine's head, and yes, those bright golden eyes that shone like Jace's— _like mother, like son_ was her fleeting thought.

But this time, she didn't try to force those images down. This time, she didn't allow herself to feel afraid—not really, she tried convincing herself _._ After all, Jace was right there with her. She wasn't alone anymore.

"Clary, sweetheart…do you want to tell me what's on your mind?" Jace asked her gently.

Despite herself, Clary blushed at Jace's new endearment for her— _sweetheart_. It sounded so lyrical, so meaningful coming from his mouth.

Instead of replying, she lifted her chin so she could meet his gaze straight-on. Traces of worry hovered behind his pupils, but his eyes were otherwise soft and loving.

Her eyes flickered to his mouth then, and her tongue unconsciously darted over her chapped bottom lip, a strange desire pulsing through her. She slowly pressed her mouth against his, giving him a soft and innocent kiss. His lips puckered against hers, applying the gentlest of pressures without deepening the kiss.

"No," Clary broke their contact abruptly when the guilt reemerged.

Jace frowned. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked her in the same tender voice, and that made her feel even guiltier. She didn't deserve his compassion. "Did I—"

Clary shook her head before releasing a deep breath through her nose. "No," she said, her voice raspy. "You didn't do anything wrong, Jace." _I just don't deserve you._

He kissed her forehead. "Then what's wrong?"

Clary bit her lip. The never-ending psychological warfare inside her head made her throat feel unbelievably tight, as if it were clogged, but she forced the words out of her mouth before she could turn back on her decision.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I should have never doubted you or said any of those horrible things to you when I realized who you were. I should have never pushed you away from me."

"I understand why you did it," Jace interrupted. "Don't apologize anymore. We both made mistakes but we're past them now. I forgive you."

Clary shook her head again. "You might not be saying that if you know…"

"Know what, Clary?"

"The… _things_ he did…" Her words felt like lead in her mouth.

Jace gave her a wry smile. "You forget. I've seen most of the things he's already done. And you, my love, have absolutely nothing to do with it."

"But I'm his daughter…"

"You are not your father," he told her, slight impatience creeping into his tone. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this."

"I don't want to fight," she choked.

"I'm not trying to fight with you, sweetheart." He sighed. "That's the last thing I want to do with you," he whispered, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "I just want you to get better."

Clary swallowed the lump in her throat and met his eyes. "Then you should know…about _those things_ …" She let out a tremulous breath. She was running out of things to say to stall her time. It was now or never.

"I went into Valentine's study," she told him.

"I know…Magnus told me," Jace said, his tone contrite. He kept his eyes on her, and she noticed for the first time, the look of intense shame and regret in them. "I'm sorry I pushed you into doing it." He bit his lip. "I shouldn't have… I should have left you alone."

Clary put her hand against his mouth to silence him. He didn't deserve to apologize for the decision _she_ had made herself.

"Valentine," she began, ignoring Jace's look, "He had a secret room in his study. I found his journal and read everything. You were right, Jace. Valentine's completely _deranged_ … He's been conspiring with the Verlacs for years… He murdered your parents out of his own spite and jealousy. God, he even killed _my mother_ and Luke for conspiring against him…" A strangled sob left her mouth at the mention of her dead mother and godfather.

"And that's not even the worst of it…" she continued unsteadily. Her chest heaved with broken sobs as salty tears trickled down her cheeks. " _Your parents…_ " She closed her eyes, afraid to see his reaction. "He had his men chop up Stephen's body into _pieces_ and left them scattered in the Forbidden Forest…" Jace's body shook against hers, whether in fury or despair she didn't know.

"And your _mom_ —" They both stiffened at the mention of his mother. "I saw her head… _preserved in a glass jar in his room_ …"

* * *

Jace's eyes widened in absolute shock and he could have sworn his heart had stopped beating at Clary's revelation. He tasted bile in his mouth and he unintentionally shoved the princess off of him before bounding frantically out of the room.

He didn't know what he was running away from—he just knew that he needed to get away, away from everything.

As soon as his feet entered the living room, Magnus and Simon jumped up off of the couch and tried to ask him what was wrong, but Jace pushed past them and ran straight out of Magnus's house. He ran, until the nausea became too unbearable for him and he emptied out his stomach onto the ground, his chest heaving with dry sobs at the same time.

 _God, how much more am I supposed to handle?_ He thought as he continued to throw up, the acid tasting bitter and repulsive in his mouth. Was it not enough that Valentine had murdered his parents? Was it not enough that he had robbed his mother of her virtue before he had her killed? Did he have to keep her head as a prized token of his reprehensible victory as well? _The sick monster!_

Minutes must have passed when Jace suddenly felt small hands on his back, tracing smooth patterns lightly, comfortingly, and after a while, his retching finally ceased.

He swiped at his mouth with the corner of his sleeve, gasping a little for air. His throat felt dry and scraped like sandpaper, and he felt hollow and…livid.

" _I'm going to kill him_ ," he said hoarsely, his tawny eyes burning with blind fury. "I'm going to kill him," he repeated, his voice stronger this time.

"I know," Clary said in a surprisingly more composed state.

He turned around and looked down at his girl, seeing the wary and worried look in her eyes, contrasted with the grim and determined set of her mouth. He knew what she was thinking of without her needing to say a word. She was there for him now, regardless of whether or not he turned her away. He wasn't a fool to believe that she was magically healed of her trauma, but for all intents and purposes, Clary was _Clary_ again.

She was a strong and brave woman, who loved him enough to put herself second to him. It was how their love worked…they were each other's calm in the storm, the pillar that held the other up in times of vulnerability and weakness. It was an unspoken instinctual reaction he only now noticed they shared; that when one of them was weak, the other would, naturally, be compelled to be the stronger one, even if they weren't necessarily in the right frame of mind for it.

"How are you feeling?" He asked her as he stroked her cheek, unable to resist a small smile at her.

Clary placed her hand over his, her thumb running smooth circles over his heated skin, and smiled softly. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I'm fine," he told her. "Beyond pissed off, but I'm fine."

Clary nodded. "I'm—"

"Don't apologize. Please," he interrupted her. "I didn't expect to hear _that_ but you should know by now that I don't hold any of those things against you, Clary. If anything, _I'm_ sorry that that horrible man is your father. He doesn't deserve you."

She released his hand, then slowly went to wrap her arms around his middle. Jace stiffened for a moment, unused to her being so forward with him, even if it were an innocent gesture as a hug. But he quickly recovered himself and rested his chin atop her head.

"We're okay," he told her.

"Come on," Clary urged him gently when they broke apart. She took his large hand into her smaller one and led him back towards Magnus's house.

When they entered the living room, both Magnus and Simon gave them questioning looks, but Clary firmly shook her head at them, telling them not to pry.

"Magnus, may I have a glass of water, please?" Clary asked him sweetly as she rubbed soothing circles onto Jace's back.

The gladiator in question had chosen to sit down on one of the stools, his very demeanor conveying his exhaustion after the initial bout of anger and repulsion had passed. It only occurred to him now what a long day he'd had. His encounter with Clary in the stables had been one thing, but learning about his mother's fate was another.

Valentine was a dead man once he got his hands on him. He would serve him the justice he deserved for everything he had done to his family.

"Anything for you, Biscuit," Magnus said before disappearing into the kitchen.

Moments later, he reappeared with a tall glass of water in his hands. He handed it to Jace, who accepted it with a mumbled thanks.

The gladiator chugged the water down greedily, the coolness of the liquid soothing his parched throat and washing away the taste of vomit from his mouth a little.

"So, are you going to tell us what's going on?" Simon broke the silence, an eyebrow raised enquiringly.

Jace was too tired to summon his irritation for the servant boy. Thankfully, Clary decided to take the reins on this one and answered on his behalf.

"Simon, Magnus…meet Jace," Clary introduced him.

From the frown on Simon's face, Jace could tell that the latter hadn't expected for Clary's answer to be his name, and he smiled at that. It was her more polite way of saying that it was none of his business. And as far as Jace was concerned, the things that had transpired between him and Clary were theirs alone and no one else's.

"I knew it," Magnus muttered.

"What?" Clary stepped closer to the doctor, growing suspicious of his observant look.

"Jace Herondale, right?" Magnus clarified, gesturing to him.

Jace immediately became alert. "How did you—"

"I had my suspicions since the first time I met you," Magnus said. "I just didn't say anything because it wasn't my place to say it…" He paused, looking hesitant for the first time. "I knew your parents… When I was younger and serving as an apprentice to the royal physician Ragnor Fell, I've had the privilege of running into your father, Stephen, several times." Magnus smiled at him. "He was a good man, your father."

Jace nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

"He was also a stunning specimen and sarcastic at the best of times. You're quite like him. If anything, your looks are a dead giveaway," Magnus remarked.

"I must be lucky that none of the guards at Dumont have caught on as quickly as you have, then?" Jace asked uneasily.

"Lucky indeed," Magnus nodded. "In his early days as king, Valentine executed _thousands_ of Idrisians—especially those with military background and prestige. He was, you could say, paranoid that Stephen's loyal subjects would rise up against him. Most of the guards he's assigned to keep watch over the gladiators are hired mercenaries. It's unlikely that any of them knew your parents—so they wouldn't know you either."

"Oh," was all that Jace could say.

"Wait, you're the lost prince?" Simon finally spoke up again, his brown eyes flickering with a look of respect one usually reserved for authority. To Jace's delight, he also looked apologetic, though not nearly enough for him to start groveling at his feet. Pity, that.

"Yes," Jace answered shortly. "But for now, you will only know me as _Shadowhunter_ ," he stressed on his gladiator name, an underlying warning to Simon that he had better keep his mouth shut about his real identity— _or else_.

"Shadowhunter," Simon repeated. "Right."

Jace nodded his approval before glancing at the clepsydra. It was just slightly over an hour until midnight, which meant that he needed to return to the stables soon.

With Michael gone, the warden had assigned one of his own guards from the barracks, Mark Blackthorn, as Jace's temporary escort to and fro his slave duties. He was somewhat likeable for a guard, but even then, Jace doubted that he would be able to keep his mouth shut if he were to find him missing from the stables.

"I need to get back to the stables soon," Jace announced, throwing a cautious look in Clary's direction. What if she were to fall apart again without him?

As if realizing that he was fretting over her, Clary turned to him, brief panic flashing in her emerald green eyes. He saw the silent question in her eyes: _Must you go?_ But knowing his answer, she didn't voice it out loud. Instead, she turned to Magnus, "Do you mind if I stay with you tonight? I would go home, but Jon—"

Clary was silenced by Magnus's raised hand. "Say no more, Biscuit. You can stay the night in one of the guest rooms. I'll walk you back home tomorrow and keep you company until Jon gets back."

"Thank you," Clary gave him a grateful smile.

"Now," Magnus gave the pair of them a meaningful but playful look. "Why don't you go ahead and tuck Clary into bed, Jace? I'm sure that she would _love_ that."

"Magnus," Clary bristled, her cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment. "That's—"

"Inappropriate," Jace finished, looking equally red-faced. He knew that given the amount of affection he and Clary had shown each other since their courtship, his response was rather hypocritical, but still—he felt unsettled by what the doctor was implying, even if it was delivered in good, joking nature.

"I jest!" Magnus said with a roll of his eyes. "Honestly, Clary, how lowly do you think of me…I am well aware of how important your honor is to you."

"Then don't say things like that," Clary said, blushing.

"Fine, I apologize," Magnus conceded. "Go on—to the bedroom." He waved them away. "Sheldon—"

" _Simon._ "

"—you stay put." He gestured to Simon sternly, eliciting an annoyed eye-roll from the brown-haired boy. "You'll go with Jace to the stables later with my horse. You can pretend that he escaped the stables and that you two had to go after him." He stroked his chin with an elegant finger. "Might as well have a cover ready just in case," he muttered to himself.

"Shoo, kiddies! Off to the bedroom, now!" Magnus ordered the couple when he noticed them still standing rooted to the same spot.

Jace and Clary shook their heads at the eccentric doctor's commands, but did as they were told, entering the bedroom and leaving the door open a crack.

Jace continued to stand by the doorway while Clary settled herself on the bed, and began to make herself comfortable by wrapping the blankets around herself. He smiled at the sight of her, looking very much like an innocent child who was preparing herself for bedtime.

"Jace," Clary called out to him when he remained rooted to his spot, unmoving but staring blankly at her. "Come sit by me." She gestured to the chair that was conveniently enough, situated by her bedside. Complying, he walked towards her and sat down as she had requested.

"Are you feeling okay now?" He asked her after a beat of silence.

Clary had a contemplative look in her eyes, as if she were thinking deeply about something. "There's more," she finally said, "that I need to tell you about." Although her tone was slightly hesitant, a closer examination showed a determined strength in the princess's green eyes.

Despite the somber mood, laced with a deep sense of foreboding, Jace couldn't help but smile at her. They were making progress—a lot of progress—and in such short amount of time, too. Clary was willingly making an effort to open up to him; she wasn't going to shut herself down anymore, and that made him feel beyond relieved and happy.

"Go on, sweetheart," he told her. "I'm listening."

Clary turned onto her side to face him, then after several minutes of silence, finally launched into a full explanation about her other findings—about Valentine's treaties with the Verlacs; how Valentine had planned for Clary to marry Sebastian to unite Idris and Alicante; about the poverty in Idris due to Valentine's rule and how he had been collecting taxes from the people to fund the games; and how Jonathan had been secretly helping the poor families in Idris.

At the end of it all, Jace was fuming again, his breaths heavy and his body tense with rage. "You're not going to marry _Sebastian_ ," his lips curled with disgust as he spat out the fiend's name. "I won't let him take you away from me."

Clary gave him a look of disbelief. "Seriously, Jace. Out of everything I just told you, you picked to comment on my wedding with Sebastian?" She asked incredulously.

"Yes." The single word was packed with every ounce of seriousness. "Because I choose to be selfish. And besides, you know that whatever happens to you matters the most to me," he told her in earnest.

Clary's eyes softened. "I know," she said. "But on the bright side of things, at least we know that the wedding isn't until after the games. Besides, with his duties as the new king of Alicante, Sebastian's bound to be busy… The likelihood of him bothering us anytime soon is slim to none. For now, we need to focus on what we're going to do to defeat Valentine."

Jace kept quiet as he mulled over Clary's words—not so much about what they were going to do about Valentine, but what to do about her situation with Sebastian. The very thought of her marrying someone else—much less someone as crude as Sebastian—was enough to pique him and make him feel sick to his stomach. Clary wasn't going to marry that abhorrent excuse for a man, not while he had anything to do or say about it.

As his eyes landed on the girl in question, his hard golden gaze softened. Her eyes were closed in repose, the harsh lines of distress gone from her face. Of course, she looked like she had seen better days, but she was still beautiful—a perfect combination of vulnerability and resilient strength. He had never loved her more than he did in that moment.

It was also one of the main reasons why those three words neither of them had expected him to say incidentally came tumbling out of his mouth:

" _Marry me, Clary._ "

She stared at him, wide-eyed and mouth gaping, looking far more surprised by his proposal than _he_ was. Finally, she averted her green eyes away from his, blushing furiously.

"You know I will marry you someday, Jace," she told him in a shy voice. Unconsciously, she pulled the blanket up past her chin, until it was covering the lower half of her face.

Jace leaned forward in his seat, perching his arms on the bed and bringing his face level to Clary's. Even if he hadn't had any intentions to propose to her before, he had still said them with sincerity—he had _meant_ them with every beat of his heart. He had never loved another woman before Clary, and he believed that he could never love another after her.

"No," he said, sounding slightly unsure yet confident all the same. "I mean marry me _before_ the games. Tomorrow, the night after that, I don't care. Just as long as you marry me."

Doubt instantly clouded her green eyes. "I…" she stuttered. "I don't know, Jace. I mean, don't you think that we're moving a little too fast?" Clary shook her head at him when he tried to speak. "We haven't known each other for all that long…"

"Yet we already know almost everything about each other—well, the _important_ things about each other," he corrected himself when she gave him a skeptical look.

"Not everything," she whispered, her voice sounding slightly muffled behind the blanket. "I still don't know one very important thing about you."

"Then ask away," he said, his amber eyes piercing straight into her green ones. "Ask me anything you want to know."

"Your birthday," Clary finally said. "You never told me when your birthday was."

Jace chuckled at her question, clearly having expected something far more serious than that. "January the 2nd," he answered, but deflated almost immediately afterwards. "Your father invaded Idris shortly after the midnight celebrations to welcome the New Year. My parents died the day before my twelfth birthday," he relinquished the information without her prompting. "I haven't celebrated my birthday since…" he trailed off to see her face turn pale at his confession.

"That's terrible," her voice came out in a barely audible whisper.

Jace gave her a rueful smile. "Don't fret over it, Clary. It's just a birthday." He attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Hopefully I'll live long enough to experience many more birthdays—we can celebrate it together then."

She nodded stiffly.

"Is that all?" He asked her, hopeful that she would move on from the topic of his birthday and— _maybe_ —agree to his proposal.

Clary shook her head and lowered her gaze from his. "No," she said, her expression troubled as if she were fighting with herself.

Jace looked disappointed. "Did you really even mean to ask me about my birthday?"

"Partly," she answered noncommittally.

" _Clary_ ," Jace intoned sternly before straightening himself in his seat. "I thought we were past the stage of keeping secrets from each other. If you have any reservations, you need to tell me." He swallowed and lowered his voice. "If you want out of this relationship…"

"I don't want an out," Clary looked bewildered by his suggestion. "I just—I don't understand. Why do you want to marry me so soon, Jace?" She asked him, stupefied.

"I told you—"

"Is it because of your pride? Do you just want to marry me because you want to stake your claim on me before Sebastian does?"

"What?" He glared at her, offended by the accusation. "Of course not! How could you—"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to imply—" Clary hastily cut in, stammering nervously. "What I had meant to say was…I…we both know that I'm far from okay," she said, alluding to her breakdown earlier with a melancholic sigh. "I mean, I'm fine right now, but I might not always be. I would be more of a burden to you than a wife you deserve."

"And how do you know about what I deserve, Clary?" He asked her, leaving her stunned in dumbfounded silence. "Neither of us are perfect— _I know that_ —but I love you…and for me, that's more than enough." He looked down, feeling rejected by her reluctance. "But I understand if you don't feel the same way. We're from two different worlds…"

"That's not it," Clary interrupted. "I _do_ want to marry you."

"But?"

" _But_ ," she said, lacking the assertiveness she needed to get her point across—if there was even a valid point of argument. "I just don't feel right rushing into things," she finished weakly. "What if marrying each other turned out to be a mistake? What if we manage to take out Valentine and escape Sebastian, but years from now, you'd realize that you didn't actually love me after all?"

Her eyes reflected so many things: insecurity, fear, sadness, but beneath everything else, there was also love and desire. She wasn't lying when she said that she wanted him, after all. But the only thing holding her back was fear of them failing.

"Have a little faith," he said, repeating the words he had spoken to her on the eve of her birthday. "Have I given you a reason to not trust my love and commitment for you?"

"No," Clary whispered. "You haven't."

"Then don't hold back," he murmured, leaning in toward her again. He placed his hand on her blanket-covered shoulder, and she instinctively stiffened before relaxing into his touch. "If you need a _better_ reason for me to convince you into marrying me, then here it is." He paused, and within the span of a few seconds, his golden eyes were alit with fiery resolve.

"I love you—and I'm running out of time to show you just how much. Idealistically, I would love to think that things would go in our favor and I manage to kill Valentine, but I'm a _realist_ …so I know that there's an equal possibility that I might fail—badly," he heaved a defeated sigh. "The point I'm trying to get across here is that time is ticking for us. And if by some measure of bad luck, I do fail, I don't want to go down as just Jace the gladiator, son of Stephen and Celine Herondale. I want to go down as your _husband_ , as the man who fought for you—who fought for _us_.

"I know I don't have much to offer you, Clary. But I promise you— _I promise you_ —that for as long as my heart is still beating in my chest…that for as long as there is still breath left in my body…I will do everything in power to protect you. But most of all, I promise that I will love you until the day I die. _Heck_ ," he laughed, "If God willed us to meet again in the life after that, I will certainly love you even then. Because from the moment I saw you Clary, my heart has belonged to you completely. There is, and can never be, any other woman for me but you."

Tears spilled over Clary's cheeks at his proclamation and heart-filled promises, and he lovingly brushed them away with the pad of his thumbs. He knew her answer before she said it—his words having put her doubts at ease—but he didn't want to assume. So he _asked_ her, the way he realized that he should have asked her earlier.

"Wouldn't you rather be my wife, for even just a little while, than to have to be forced to become Sebastian's for the rest of your life?"

A smile slowly graced her lips and she nodded—slowly at first, then more vigorously when he grinned at her.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she affirmed, chuckling wetly. "Of course I want to be your wife. Even if it's just for the next two months, I don't want to belong to anyone but you. I love you."

Freeing her hand from the confines of her blanket, she intertwined their fingers together and squeezed them. Jace's grin was large and infectious that she found herself giggling at him. Of course, a part of her knew that it would have been far more romantic to celebrate their newest engagement with a kiss, but she held herself back from acting on those impulses. Too many times already they had crossed that line, and while they had always been harmless, she didn't want to keep venturing into the physical zone—at least, not until they were husband and wife.

"Soon, we won't have to tiptoe ourselves around each other anymore," Jace said, as if reading her thoughts. He waggled his eyebrows at her playfully.

"Oh," Clary's face morphed into something akin to a scowl, "Is that one of your reasons for—"

"Of course not," Jace placed his hand over his heart. "But you have to admit. The boon that comes with marriage does have its appeal…"

Clary rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, how you have ruined the moment."

"All jokes aside, Clary, are you certain of your decision to marry me?" Jace asked, his expression turning serious. "Once we're wed, you won't be a Morgenstern anymore…but a _Herondale_."

Clary gave him a meaningful glance. "A few days ago I would have minded…but now that I know the _truth_ ," she said, "I would be more than honored to carry the Herondale name."

"Clary Herondale. Clarissa Adele Herondale," Jace breathed as he laid his chin down on the bed. "It does have a nice ring to it."

Virtually, hours seemed to have passed when Clary finally sat up with an excited expression on her face. It was such a huge contrast from the Clary he had seen in the stables tonight. For now, she was living in the moment, where the dark ghosts of the past and her burdensome secrets couldn't reach her.

"There was something else I found while I was there. Something _good_ ," she said, referring to Valentine's secret room. Her hand dug into the right pocket of her dress as she retrieved the small item, which she presented to him in a closed fist.

Jace sat up as she pried open her fingers. His jaw fell slack as he discovered the silver item nestled in her right palm.

The Herondale ring. A priceless family heirloom.

"You stole it from your father?" He asked her quietly. His hands remained as they were, palms facing down on the bed. He hadn't made a move to take the ring—nor did he feel the urge to.

"It's not even his to begin with, so technically I didn't steal anything," Clary said assertively. "I'm returning it to its rightful owner. _You._ "

When Jace still didn't move, Clary reached for his hand and tried to deposit the ring onto his palm.

"No." He shook his head and forced the ring back into her hand, enclosing his fingers around her fist. "Keep it. It belongs to you now."

Clary frowned in obvious protest. "But Jace—"

"No buts, Clary. Consider it my engagement gift for you," he said, his tone brooking no room for argument. She huffed at him. "As my future wife, my only request is that you keep my family ring safe for me. Hopefully we'll be able to make through this, and one day, when we have our own child, we'll pass on this ring to him."

The subject of children did an effective job of eliminating Clary's annoyance as she flared red with embarrassment. "Children?"

Jace's smile faltered. It had been another one of his in-the-heat-of-the-moment confessions, something he had never really spent time pondering about but subconsciously wanted. Truthfully, before Clary, the idea had seemed ludicrous and far-fetched. Being a gladiator, it was difficult to envision a future which included the possibility of settling down and having a family to call his own.

But Clary had changed all of that. Jace wanted _more_ beyond seeking his redemption. He wanted to be a husband. He wanted to be a father to as many beautiful children as he and Clary would hopefully be blessed with.

"Maybe a few years from now," he said. "Besides, with both of us combined, we'll make the perfect babies. Although we have to be mindful to keep them away from your brother. He's left quite the impression on me that spells aptly of juvenile behavior," he couldn't resist the jest.

Clary slapped his chest. "Speak for yourself. You're no better than Jon sometimes."

Jace chuckled inwardly at his success of lightening the mood. "So you say. But you have to admit… It was my inane wit—second only to my charmingly good looks—that made you fall so hopelessly in love with me."

"Arrogant idiot. Why do I even put up with you?"

"Because you know, without a sliver of a doubt that you, my dear Clary, are hopelessly and irrevocably in love with me."

Clary narrowed her eyes at him but didn't raise any objections to his proclamation. It would have resulted in a losing battle anyway—even she knew that.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Phew! This chapter was an emotional rollercoaster, as I'm sure some of you would agree.**_

 _ **And to clarify, no, Clary is not nearly at the stage where is recovered from her trauma (no one gets over a traumatizing experience so quickly), but for the time being, her mental wits have allowed her to push those unpleasant thoughts to the back of her mind and granted her the ability to be lucid. That, in a way is a testament to show that she is stronger than she appears, and that she is also stronger because she allows Jace to shoulder part of her burden for her.**_

 _ **Again, that's very telling of how much their relationship has grown in the short time that they have been together (and been apart). Despite their many challenges, they have proven that their love for each other outweighs it all. And with everything laid out in the open between them, the level of trust they share has been deepened to a whole other degree** **.**_

 _ **So does that make them ready for marriage?**_

 _ **In my Clace-centric mind, yes, it does.** **Even though they are both young, they're already at the stage where they genuinely appreciate each other's presence in their lives. The tragedies they have each gone through (Jace losing both his parents, being pushed into slavery, and forced to kill men for sport or risk being killed himself, and Clary losing her mother and being abused by the only parent she has) drive their instinctual desire to take care of each other because they know that up until the moment their paths crossed, they didn't have much else...tangible to live for. The idea of a marriage might seem like an impulsive move because of the timing and all, but it** **will be very necessary to strengthen their relationship and to help them in their slow but certain healing process as individuals and as a couple. Now there is an extra reason for them to keep fighting, and for Jace, it's no longer just about seeking justice for his parents; it's about being something more. To fight for the living people he loves rather than merely avenging those who have already passed on.**_

 _ **If there are any protestors against my decision to move the story in this direction, well, I apologize but this is how I planned the story to go from the very start. Clace shippers, you can expect lots of wonderful Clace fluff next chapter!**_

* * *

 ** _Review! Let's try to hit at least 100 reviews this time and who knows? You might just get another update by this Saturday ;)_**

 ** _p.s. Just a heads-up. I foresee myself being busy for the next 1-2 months because of school, work and just life in general, so I am really trying my best to update as much as possible or you guys will be stuck waiting a long time for an update... We have 7 chapters until the end i.e. the epilogue...then you guys can rest easy and just breeze through the additional 7 chapters of outtakes._**

 _ **Until the next update,**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	18. Chapter 17: The Union

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **THREE UPDATES IN A WEEK?! Yup. That's right.**_ ** _Even though we didn't hit the target number of reviews for last chapter, I decided to go ahead and update anyway. Because believe it or not, I am anxious to get the story done before my busy month hits._**

 ** _Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter! Much love to all of you :)_**

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 17: THE UNION**

 **October 4, 508**

Jace was seated next to Alec in the training field, the two of them grappling to break the uncomfortable silence between them. It was just after dinner, and they were watching the sunset, mesmerized by the sight of the flaming red orb as it slowly dipped beneath the horizon, giving rise to the change of colors in the sky, from orange to red, before it lingered on a chalky mauve.

Jace let out a quiet sigh. Throughout the entire day, the two friends had managed to stay civil with each other; they had trained and sparred as they usually did, sans the easy-going conversation that had become a part of their habit since their reunion weeks ago. Both were desperate to move past their most recent quarrel but neither knew what to say to defuse the tension between them. Men didn't usually talk about their feelings; more often than not, they worked out their frustrations with their fists.

 _Don't be stupid_ , Jace's conscience chided him. _TWO WORDS. Just choke up your pride and say them already._

Clearing his throat, Jace finally said, "I'm sorry."

The two friends turned to face each other, Alec looking surprised by Jace's apology. His cerulean-blue eyes spoke as much as his stuttering mouth did; he had probably expected Jace to speak coldly to him, which would eventually result in another argument.

"I was out of line when I brought up Magnus the other day. What you do with him—what you are to him—is none of my business, and I've no right to judge you for it," he continued. "You are still my best friend. My parabatai. My…my _brother_. My caring for you will always remain." He met Alec's gaze, a hue of pink tinging his cheeks. "I regret that I hurt you, when you were only trying to help me. Please, forgive me, Alec."

"I…it's fine, Jace," Alec managed to say. For a fleeting moment, an undetectable emotion flashed across his face, before it was quickly replaced with relief. "I'm used to you being a jerk anyway," he added, allowing himself a brief child-like, amused smirk.

Jace's mouth fell open in disbelief at the latter's blasé remark. "Are you serious?" He scoffed when Alec nodded. "I take it back then. I'm _not_ sorry."

Alec smiled at his friend. "Stop sulking, Jace. It's unbecoming."

"I swallowed my pride to apologize and you call me a jerk. What about _you_?" He muttered.

"Fine," Alec relented. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have talked about Clary like that. I know next to nothing about her to be passing judgments about her character."

Jace nodded. "Exactly," he huffed.

"How are…things between you and Clary?" Alec prompted him in a more somber and wary tone. "You seem to be a lot more focused in training today," he added. "Have you managed to patch things up with her?"

"Yes. Yes, I have," he said, smiling wistfully to himself. "We're together again. Clary found out the truth about everything. She saw something…" Jace trailed off, feeling nauseated by the mere thought of his fiancée's discovery in Valentine's secret room. His mother's head preserved in a glass jar—he just couldn't wrap his mind around it. His poor mother… "It wasn't easy for her, finding out that the only parent she has left in the world is really nothing more than a certified psychopath, but it's definitely brought us closer," Jace said. Then lowering his voice, he confessed, "Clary and I are getting married."

"M-married?" Alec's blue eyes widened in astonishment. "Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"Clary and I have talked it over last night. Yes, we both agreed that it is," Jace said with mild annoyance. He leveled Alec with an intense stare, daring him to voice his disapproval. The latter didn't disappoint.

"B-but she's Valentine's daughter…"

"Not this again!" Jace growled frustratedly. "Alec, for the _thousandth_ time, I am fully aware of her parentage and that if Clary and I were to get married, Valentine would be my father-in-law." He cringed at the mere thought of being 'related' to the demon. "But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I love Clary, and that's all there is to it."

Alec nodded, but looked visibly pale.

Jace rolled his eyes. "Listen, Alec. Just because Clary will be my wife soon doesn't mean that I'm going to start showing up for family meals with the Morgensterns and call Valentine 'dad'. I would sooner die than do something as _ridiculous_ as that."

"But—"

" _Besides_ ," Jace deliberately cut him off, "If things go as planned, Valentine will be dead before the year is up." He was aware of how cold he sounded making a statement like that, but to be honest with himself, he was past caring about things like that anymore.

Was he a wicked person for wishing death upon a man who had obliterated his entire life and slaughtered his family? Was he a vile man for wanting to take justice into his own hands and execute his parents' murderer? Perhaps, he was. Perhaps, if he had spent the last couple of years meditating on his situation and teaching himself to forgive Valentine, he would have elevated himself onto a whole other level of maturity and morality. It would have made him into a person his parents—his mother especially—could be proud of. But then again, no one could truly understand him unless they were in his position and had gone through the things he had. For Jace, there was just too much anger, and far too much pain, for him to merely let go.

"And just how exactly are you going to accomplish that?" Alec interrupted him in a disbelieving tone. "Infiltrate Valentine's chambers in the middle of the night and kill him while he's soundly asleep?"

"Don't be daft." Jace scrunched his nose. "Although…that's not a half-bad idea," he said almost contemplatively.

"Jace, be serious."

Jace gave an exasperated sigh and glanced at Alec. "I haven't ironed out the finer details yet, but after my final match in the games, I intend to call out Valentine in the arena and expose him for every wretched deed he's ever done…then I'll challenge him to fight me," he explained.

This time, Alec looked at him with undisguised skepticism. "Valentine will have your _head_ on a silver platter for stepping out of line. He will never agree to fight you."

"Maybe," Jace rolled his eyes. "But the people always love a good fight. They will never let Valentine turn me down. If he orders to have me publicly killed in the arena, he will only risk losing the people's favor in his leadership. Besides, once everyone knows who I really am—or at least, once they've heard about Valentine's crimes—they'll be on my side. Valentine will have no choice but to accept my challenge then."

Noticing the frown on Alec's face, Jace continued, "I know how hard it is for you to trust me on this, Alec, but _trust me_ when I say that no one wants a coward or a fraud for a king. As far as I now, the people have been suffering enough under Valentine's rule. The only reason they've kept quiet about it because Valentine's been using fear to control them. The people need _hope_ , Alec…and I'm going to be the one to give them that."

Resolve glistened in his golden eyes, silencing the doubts threatening to spill from Alec's mouth. "Whatever Valentine chooses, he will be doomed to the people's wrath once he's been exposed. It's really just a matter of death by my hand, or death by the people—"

"Shadowhunter!" Emil's summoning cut his conversation with Alec short.

Across the field, Jace met the warden's gaze, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Jonathan standing next to the latter. He was wearing a light blue cotton tunic, his white-blond hair tousled, and his green eyes sparkling with barely hidden mischief.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning for training, Alec," Jace distractedly bade his friend goodbye before climbing to his feet and crossing the distance to Emil and Jonathan.

"Your Highness," Jace greeted Jonathan cordially. The prince nodded in reply. "What brings you here, good prince?" He asked, a little curious as to why Clary's brother was there to see him. After all, he could have waited for Jace to show up later at the stables if he had wanted to speak with him.

"Prince Jonathan has come to fetch you," Emil answered for him. Jace raised an eyebrow in a silent question. "Since your former master has renounced his claim on you, Prince Jonathan has come forward to declare you as his personal slave. From now on, you belong to him. You will answer to him and carry out whatever duties he so pleases you to do…or there will be dire consequences." Jace pursed his lips at Emil's undisguised attempt of reminding him that he was a form of property that was owned and could be easily be disposed of at a moment's notice—as Michael had done with him. But because he wanted to remain in the prince's good books, he held his tongue. "Do you understand, _boy_?"

 _Don't talk down to me._ "I understand, _Sir_ ," Jace answered in a calm voice, though his stormy golden eyes told an entirely different story.

"You will continue to compete in the games and train as a gladiator as you always have. However, you will no longer be required to return to the barracks until the morning of each day," Jonathan chimed in formally, though Jace didn't miss the conspiratorial undertone in his voice. His mood lifted significantly. At least Jonathan didn't sound condescending. "I have arranged for your own accommodations within the palace so that I can easily acquire your services if need be. You will be staying in the servants' quarters each night. As for the rest of it, I will come by to escort you to the palace every evening after dinner, as well as walk you back to the barracks each dawn. Understood?"

Jace nodded, looking slightly baffled by the announcement. Jonathan was his master now? He was going to spend his nights at the palace? Was Clary even aware of any of this?

Jonathan turned to Emil, his tone curt as he addressed the older man. It was a small, hardly noticeable change, but Jace saw it. Not even the prince liked the warden. "Well, now that that's settled, we'll see you tomorrow morning," he said.

"As you shall, Your Highness," Emil replied, bowing his head respectfully.

"Come now, Shadowhunter."

Once they were out of earshot, Jonathan dropped all pretenses of formal authority and began snickering like a child. "So… _Jace_ ," he lingered on his name, as if testing it out on his tongue. "Clarissa has told me all about your plans to elope."

Jace smiled, finally beginning to understand the ploy. "You've been well-informed then," he said. "What say you, big brother, do we have your blessings?"

"That's an awfully redundant question," Jonathan rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "Why else would I be here, sticking my neck out for the two of you?"

Jace grinned. "Maybe you have masochistic tendencies," he joked. "Are you allowed to do that, by the way? To claim 'ownership rights' over me?" He added, more serious this time.

"Being the crown prince of Idris has its advantages. Besides, you didn't hear the warden protesting, did you?" Jonathan said. "It was also entirely coincidental that I received a letter from your former master this morning." Jace was taken aback by the mention of Michael. "He wrote to inform me of your recent 'fallout', and pleaded with me to take you in as my slave. He wanted to make sure that you were in good hands."

"Did he now?" Jace clenched his jaw. "How very thoughtful of him."

"He cares for you," Jonathan said.

"He cares only for himself." Jace shook his head.

"Maybe so," the prince relented. "But maybe a little gratitude is in order. If your master hadn't contacted me, you would have remained a slave of the arena. But considering that you're mine now, I'm allowed to do with you as I please…"

"That sounds awfully kinky."

"…And as your new master, I should like to set you free."

"What?" Jace stood still as he stared speechlessly at the prince.

 _Free?_

"We'll keep up with the ruse that you're my slave and gladiator for the time being, but outside of these circumstances, you're a free man, Jace," Jonathan said earnestly.

Jace was still in awe.

"Do you really mean that?" His voice was small, vulnerable.

"I'm serious about restoring your dignity, and as a man of this society, yes," Jonathan replied. "Oh, stop looking at me like I'm a saint. The reason I'm doing this is because, well, if the roles were reversed, I would want someone to be as compassionate towards me. I don't want you to feel insecure or think that you're less than Clary because a certain status is separating you both. If she's going to be your wife, then you must be her equal."

Jace could have sworn that his eyes were glazed over with tears but he held them back with an embarrassingly loud sniffle. "Thank you."

"Don't cry."

"Shut up, I won't." He shoved Jonathan away from him. Then clearing his throat, Jace tried to sound normal as he asked, "So, what are we going to do about the wedding?"

"Tsk tsk. And to think that you two were supposed to be the ones making all the plans…" Jonathan muttered as if the conversation before that never took place. "Both so eager to get married and yet neither of you had the foresight to think about your wedding and marriage arrangements… As always, it's up to big brother Jon to come to your rescue!"

Jace shrugged. "We didn't have the opportunity to think that far ahead. And Clary did say that she wanted your opinion first."

"Opinion, bah," Jonathan scoffed. "After she had settled down, she basically just told me that you two were getting married, with or without my permission."

"Did she now?"

"Yes," Jon said. "Then she tried to make a save by saying that she would have preferred it if she had my support."

Jace chuckled at Jonathan's offended expression. "I have to ask… You weren't actually serious about me having to sleep in the servants' quarters, were you?" He asked hopefully.

Jonathan's joking demeanor immediately changed to suit a more solemn disposition. "Of course not," he said through clenched teeth. "I do not believe that it is fair for the both of you to be married, only to spend your nights as a married couple away from each other." Jace didn't miss the sudden stiff decorum in Jonathan's speech, but he said nothing of it. Secretly, he was much too relieved by Jonathan's implication that he would be spending his nights with Clary, his future _wife_. "On the other hand, that does not mean that I am happy about your intentions to defile my sister."

 _Ah_ , Jace thought. _There's that protective older brother side of him I had been missing…_

"I am glad though, that you will be one to marry her," Jonathan admitted, his features softening a little. In fact, he was even smiling at Jace gratefully. "At least if you're with Clary, Sebastian won't be able to claim her. Valentine disclosed to me on our journey to Alicante that Clary was taking too long to choose herself a husband so he had graciously taken it upon himself to accept Sebastian's proposal on her behalf. It's quite amazing, really, that—that _man_." He looked repulsed at the mention of his father. "I just want to protect my sister, Jace, and I know that I can count on you to do just that."

"That's all I ever want," Jace returned sincerely. "Thank you, Jonathan. I really do appreciate you helping us."

The prince nodded. "We're family now," he said absentmindedly. "The two of you may be young, but I have faith that your marriage will only help her stand through this stronger…" He gave Jace another solemn look. "I must warn you though—Clary's still shaken up about everything… She had another small breakdown this afternoon after she told me about the things she found in Valentine's study."

"Is she okay?" Jace looked at Jonathan, worried.

"I don't think she'll ever be truly okay, but at least she's stopped crying," Jon said. "Magnus and Isabelle have been keeping her company in my absence. She told them the news about the two of you getting married, so they're distracting her by discussing plans for your wedding. Last I checked on them before I left to get you, Magnus was trying to talk her into wearing a glittery rainbow-colored gown."

"Sounds like Magnus…"

"Clary was smiling and giggling, so that's good."

Jace hummed in agreement.

"Keep her happy, but don't let yourselves get too carried away," Jon said. "We can't afford to get sidetracked from our plans to thwart Valentine. His crimes have gone on for far too long and it's about time someone puts an end to him. I'll do what I can to help, but we are going to need to work together."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this? Because when the moment comes, Jon, I don't think I can turn myself away from delivering the death blow to Valentine… And he's, well… He's _your father_ ," Jace said carefully.

Then, Jon frowned deeply as a surge of conflicting emotions arose within him. At one point—just yesterday, in fact—the very idea of being a participant in his father's execution, even passively, brought him pain, grief and insurmountable guilt. As a son, he had a moral duty to his father. The idea of betraying him, even if it was for the perceived greater good, was almost unfathomable, as outraged and resentful as he was towards the man's lack of parental care.

But what was he to do when his father was not just a man who had perpetrated a trail of wicked deeds on innumerable innocents, but also one who had murdered his own mother? _His mother!_ God, that was what _cut_ him the most. It was a blessing as any that his father had announced that he was extending his stay in Alicante to discuss 'business' with Sebastian, putting a substantial distance between them. Jon was still barely recovering from the disbelief and gut-wrenching despair upon learning that particular information from Clary.

He didn't think he could control himself from acting on his rage that screamed, 'Avenge her! Avenge your mother! She deserves your loyalty—not that _monster_!' if he did come face-to-face with the man anytime soon. The wounds that had slowly stitched themselves together after years of mourning her death had been reopened once more, inflicting him with a sting far worse than when they first discovered her body. No, he couldn't understand _this_. How could a man kill his own wife, the very woman who had borne him his children?

For that very reason, he felt his moral dilemma teeter towards the side that he had once been reluctant to consider. "The man who murdered my mother is _not_ my father," Jonathan scoffed angrily. He released his fists, not remembering when he had clenched them in the first place. "Do what you will to him. He deserves it."

In spite of his reservations, Jace found himself patting the other man's back in a gesture of comfort and empathy. "I'm sorry, Jonathan," he said to offer his condolences.

The returning smile the young prince gave the gladiator was a weak one as his green eyes still glinted with pain. "I'll get over it," he said in a slightly shaky tone. Then, clearing his throat, he mustered his most petulant and whiniest tone, "And for the love of God, please call me Jon instead of Jonathan! It makes me sound like an old man!"

Jace recognized the lame attempt at a diversion, but heartily went along with it. "So be it. _Jon_ ," he said mockingly.

"Dear God, what have I gotten myself into? You and Clary are the same," Jon muttered underneath his breath.

"When's the wedding?" Jace asked, only now realizing that they hadn't discussed a date.

Jonathan looked decidedly smug at this. "Tonight," he answered. "I've already called for a priest and sworn him to secrecy about your wedding. He will be meeting us at the entrance to the Forbidden Forest later—though why Clary wants to get married there is beyond me." Jon shook his head in disapproval. "Such an unromantic location…probably full of bloodthirsty, measles-ridden mosquitoes and nasty snakes too…"

"Uh-huh…"

Jace wasn't even listening to Jonathan at that point. All he could think of was that by the end of the night, Clary would be his.

By the end of tonight, Clarissa Morgenstern would be Clarissa Herondale.

* * *

Contrary to Jonathan's complaints earlier, the secret meadow proved to be a breathtakingly romantic and intimate setting for a private wedding ceremony. With the abundance of naturally grown flowers decorating almost every available surface of the ground and the thousands of fireflies floating about the space like airborne fairy lights, some might even call the meadow _magical_. Nothing—not even the royal ballroom when embellished in its grand opulence—could compare to the natural beauty that stood in the meadow.

Nor could anywhere else hold greater meaning for the couple than the meadow itself. It was _their place_ …the place where they had shared their first kiss; where they had opened up to each other; where they had first proclaimed their love for each other. And now, it was going to be the place where they would wed and officially become husband and wife.

"What the…"

"Close your mouth, Jon, before you choke to death on one of those fireflies," Clary said in a smug tone as Jace helped her dismount from The Countess. The latter was chuckling heartily beside her as he swung their hands to and fro in a merry motion.

Jonathan was still gaping like a fish. "Where…what? _How?" He_ pointed his finger at every random direction possible as he surveyed the meadow, completing a full circle. Finally snapping to reality, he turned to the amused-looking betrothed couple. "How is this possible? How did you find this place?" He asked more coherently.

"My father found it—way before he even met my mother," Jace relented with an explanation. "I brought Clary here the first time on the eve of her birthday."

Jonathan narrowed his eyes at him then. "The two of you—here— _alone_?"

"For God's sake, we didn't do anything… _immoral_ ," Clary defended.

Her brother's glare didn't waver. Instead, he zoomed in on their entwined hands. "No holding hands until _after_ you're married," he said sternly.

"It's a little too late for that, don't you think?" Clary retorted but begrudgingly released Jace's hand. In a softer voice, she added, slightly guiltily as she recalled the handful of times they've kissed, "We've done a little more than holding hands."

Behind them, Patrick Penhallow finally made his presence known with a chuckle.

"Stop laughing, Patrick. I'm starting to regret ever inviting you along," Jon muttered.

"As if. Where else would you find another witness at such short notice, my Prince?"

"I could have asked Simon Lewis. Or Magnus Bane," Jon retorted. "They're Clarissa's friends, and would have been more than happy to stand in as witnesses for her wedding."

"Ah, and yet, you went to me instead…"

"Because I thought you were the most mature option. Evidently not."

Brother Zachariah cleared his throat before either men could utter another word. "This is a very beautiful place," he said in a calm and serene tone. "But I think it'd be best we take our positions now, shall we?"

"Positions? What positions?" Jonathan asked, sounding clearly befuddled. He appeared torn between his little argument with Patrick, glaring at the couple, and paying attention to the priest.

"For the wedding," Brother Zachariah explained with a smile. Without waiting for anyone's reply, he began walking towards the lone oak tree, then stood underneath its arched branch.

Jace and Clary wordlessly followed and positioned themselves on either side of the priest, facing each other; Patrick took his place at Jace's side, while Jonathan stood on his sister's side with his hands clasped firmly in front of him. He fixed his eyes on Jace, leveling him with a stern glare at first, before it slowly melted into an approving smile.

" _Take care of her_ ," he mouthed the words silently over his sister's shoulder.

Jace nodded in complete understanding and promise, then flashed him a grateful smile.

Brother Zachariah cleared his throat again. "Are we ready to begin?"

"Yes, Brother Zachariah," Jace and Clary said in unison as their eyes locked with each other. He reached his hands for hers and she let him, her smile growing wide enough to match his. He brushed the callused pads of his thumbs over her warm skin, then raised her lace-gloved hands to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the back of each one.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God to witness the union of Jace Herondale and Clarissa Adele Morgenstern in holy matrimony," Brother Zachariah began in a smooth, mellow voice. "The bonds of love are strong and powerful, but even more so when blessed in sacred marriage. Let not the blood feud between two families prevent the love of two innocents; instead, let us rejoice in the love that has been forged between these two souls…"

" _You look beautiful_ ," Jace indiscreetly mouthed to her.

Clary blushed a little under the weight of his appreciative, loving gaze. She was wearing an understatedly simple ivory gown of sheer lace material that accentuated her small curves perfectly. Her hair hung in soft, wavy ringlets that framed her delicate porcelain-like face, and a white-gold Elven circlet sat on top of her head. Her face was unsurprisingly bare of make-up, but even then, she looked radiant and youthful.

Jace had cleaned up rather nicely as well. Beneath his cloak, he was wearing a dark blue woollen tunic embroidered with a rich gold detailing, and his worn leather boots had been replaced by a pair of shiny black boots—all generous gifts from Jon, of course. Even his hair had been combed back for once, and styled the way his father used to wear his.

 _"You can't wear that atrocious attire to your wedding," Jonathan had said to him when he initially refused his gifts. The gladiator in him was a stranger to being pampered with lavish presents, even though he had been secretly touched by his future brother-in-law's thoughtfulness. "Don't you want to look your best for my sister?" Only the mention of impressing Clary had finally persuaded Jace into accepting said gifts. His transformation had earned him a nod of approval from Jon, and an awed look from his bride-to-be. He looked a fitting partner for a princess. He looked like…a prince._

"…And now, for the vows," Brother Zachariah nodded at the two of them, then at Jonathan.

Jace tightened his grip on Clary's hands; her palms were sweaty and her hands shook with nervousness, but her eyes reflected the same sentiments as his own: certain, decided and unafraid. This was what they both wanted.

"Do you, Jace Herondale, take Clarissa Adele Morgenstern to be your lawfully wedded wife, for better or for worse, till death do you part?"

"I do," Jace said in a strong, clear voice, his hands squeezing Clary's encouragingly.

"And do you, Clarissa Adele Morgenstern, take Jace Herondale to be your lawfully wedded husband, for better or for worse, till death do you part?"

"I do," Clary said in an equally strong voice as happy tears began running down her cheeks. Jace fought against the sudden urge to leap forward and take her in his arms right then and there—the priest had yet to give them the permission to.

"Then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride," Brother Zachariah finished with a smile.

As soon as the words were said, Jace let out a deep, ragged breath and took a step closer towards Clary. He cradled her face in between his large, callused hands, gently, as if she were made of fragile glass. His thumbs smoothly wiped away the remaining tears lingering on her face, then with a proud smirk, he bent down and seized her lips in a passionate kiss. Clary stood on her tippy toes, her arms coiled around his neck, her fingers weaving through his soft blond curls as she returned the kiss— _their first kiss as husband and wife._

Jace grinned into the kiss. The feel of Clary's lips against his had always felt intrinsic and right, but in that very moment, it felt so much more. The shared knowledge that they were now bound by marriage seemed to make everything so much more intimate and meaningful. He would have spent hours kissing his new wife, if not for his brother-in-law's obnoxiously loud throat clearing that forced them both apart.

Jace leaned his forehead against Clary's, unwilling to put so much distance between them. She looked up at him from underneath her eyelashes and rolled her eyes. "Stupid older brother," she muttered to him.

"Okay, children," Jonathan said as he approached them, "That's enough…"

The newlywed couple reluctantly extricated themselves from their embrace and glared at the prince. The latter had a childish grin on his face and was batting his eyelashes at them innocently.

"Why the hostility, baby sister?"

"You always ruin the moment," Clary answered her brother with a frown.

"You were going to eat each other's faces off. I was doing the three of us here a favor when I interrupted," Jonathan retorted. He casually draped an arm around the silver-haired priest's shoulder, whose body stiffened comically at his touch. "There are certain things that ought to remain _unseen_."

Just then, Jonathan's eyes widened in arrant horror and his face paled. "Oh dear, what have I done?" He nearly screeched before dropping to his knees. "Good Lord, I beseech you! Please, redeem me from this terrible lapse of judgment I've made!" He raised his arms to the sky as if he were talking to God.

Again, the couple rolled their eyes at her brother's antics. "What on earth are you droning on about now, you drama queen?" Clary demanded.

To their amusement, Jon gaped at his sister as if she had grown two heads and relinquished his arms to his sides with a loud thump. "What am I droning on about? _What am I droning on about?" He_ asked her in theatrical disbelief.

"Oh sweet sister, can't you see? In my impetuous haste to be that wonderfully sweet and supportive big brother that I am, I've let you marry _him_!" He shook an accusing finger at Jace, who raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "And in turn, I've basically set myself up for my own doom! Nevermore shall I get a peaceful night's rest. I mean, seeing as how eager the two of you were to go at it at each other _here_ , even as you stand in the presence of _thy_ loving brother, his old friend"—Patrick bristled at being called 'old'—"and this holy man"—he gestured to Brother Zachariah—"I can only imagine what you two would do to each other behind closed doors!"

The Morgenstern prince began pacing back and forth whilst muttering grimly to himself. "No, not only have I condemned myself to sleep deprivation for the rest of my existence, but I have also—quite possibly—induced myself into a lifetime of deep mental scarring from the disturbing amount of noises you'll be making every night," he whined, quivering his bottom lip for an added dramatic effect.

"Come now, Jonathan," Jace said, grinning like a fool, "If that's what you're so worried about, you can always move into other chambers—far, _far_ away from us… Because believe me, dearest brother-in-law, we will be making plenty of noises."

Jonathan's face instantly pinched in disgust. "Repulsive," he said, grimacing, "Now I have horribly explicit mental images of you deflowering my innocent little sister."

Clary's nostrils flared in complete annoyance at her brother's comment, and before anyone could see it coming, she strode over purposefully towards her brother and landed a heavy stomp on his foot. Jonathan let out a loud yelp as he clutched his injured foot, all the while hopping on one leg. Clary turned on her heel sharply and made a big show of smacking her brother in the face with her hair, then she finally retreated to Jace's side.

"That's my girl," Jace chuckled. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he leaned down and kissed her temple. "Let's go home," he murmured against her ear before pulling her away.

* * *

When Jace finally made his way out of the secret passageways and into their bedroom later that night, he was disappointed when he realized that Clary wasn't even back yet. They had parted ways momentarily in the stables; since Jace couldn't risk getting caught, he had taken the path through the secret passageways while Clary and Jon would return to their respective rooms by their usual route in the palace.

Jace let out a quiet sigh. The constricting feeling in his chest hadn't eased one bit. It was especially hard for him to let his princess out of his sight this soon, but both he and Jon had agreed that it was the safest course.

As much as the elder Morgenstern sibling had shown a rather transparent interest in exploring the secret tunnels himself, neither one of them wanted to face the possibility of the tunnels triggering less than pleasant memories for Clary of the time she had spent in her father's secret study—least of all on their wedding night and a mere day after her breakdown. In the last few hours, she had been nothing but happy, and Jace wanted to keep it that way for as long as he could help it.

Upon reaching the foot of their bed, he frowned momentarily in worry, wondering why his betrothed— _wife_ , he quickly amended himself—was taking such a long time to arrive. He was fairly certain that it shouldn't have even taken this long—unless both siblings happened to forget the way to their rooms, which was highly unlikely considering that they were both residents of the palace.

A horde of questions swirled about in his mind as Jace felt his heart rate escalate, pounding at an unusually erratic pace. He knew that he was being slightly irrational but he couldn't help but wonder if Valentine had had spies watching over them this whole time—and if he did, if they had found out about their secret wedding.

He couldn't imagine what would happen to Clary and Jonathan if their father knew; the fiend would undoubtedly punish them, or worse, sentence them both to a dishonorable death for their treason.

 _No, I can't think like that_ , Jace thought as he sank down into the bed. _Clary will be fine. Jon is with her. If anything happens, he'll protect her. She'll be here soon_ , he concluded while mentally cursing his frayed nerves for working overtime.

There was no way that Valentine could have known about them. After all, they had been careful the entire time. If anything, the most probable explanation was that Isabelle—one of the few people who actually knew about the couple besides Jon, Alec, Magnus, Simon, Patrick, and Brother Zachariah—had intercepted the siblings along the way and was currently interrogating Clary for details on their wedding. Clary had told him earlier how much Izzy had wanted to be there at their ceremony, and how disappointed she had been when she'd told her that she couldn't come with.

 _Yes, that makes sense,_ he thought as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Nosy Isabelle must have made her appearance. She's always had the knack of interrupting people at the worst of timings._

An irritated noise escaped his lips as he recalled his paranoia, and he shook his head at himself, in chagrin but also partially in self-amusement.

When his heartbeat began to slow and regain some semblance of normalcy, he started to shed his boots and cloak, leaving them in a neatly arranged pile at the bottom of his feet. Moments passed as he sat in complete silence, and before long, the jitters returned.

 _What am I doing here?_ He asked himself as he surveyed the room.

He was riddled with so many conflicting emotions; swarmed with a multitude of equally discordant memories, both good and bad. He could see in his mind's eye images of himself growing up—his parents cooing over him as he laid in the cradle that had been fashioned for him as a baby; his father chasing the toddler version of himself around the room as he crawled away from him at top speed; his father teaching him how to craft his famous toy soldiers; and his mother singing him lullabies as she tucked him into bed at night.

They were all wonderful memories that he hoped to never forget… But even still, the one memory that stuck out the most to him was of that abhorrent night. The very same night when he lost his livelihood—and his parents. As thankful as he was that he hadn't seen his father die, the things he had witnessed with his mother as the victim were enough to scar him. No matter how much time had passed since then, how could he possibly unsee the last hour of his mother's life as she was raped then murdered by Valentine?

But could he stomach telling Clary the dark secrets behind this very room? She had been happy and amazed when she found out that her bedroom had belonged to him as a child… Even if her father was to be held accountable for the blame, how could he possibly tarnish the image she had of a room she believed had been his sanctuary growing up?

 _It's just a room. Don't overthink it_ , his conscience whispered. _Look around you—beyond the perpetual darkness… Valentine was the only anomaly. Don't let one horrible, unjust memory root out all the good ones… Don't let him taint you._

Jace perked up as the epiphany sank in. He realized that now, that being unable to forgive himself for failing to prevent his mother's death was one thing…it was another for him to continue letting the memory of it to stain him—to subjugate him _._ And to give up this room, it would almost be equivalent to admitting defeat to Valentine.

No, Valentine couldn't take this away from him, too. He had already lost too much to him. It was time to start claiming what was rightfully his. Tonight would be his start.

 _I'll make better memories with Clary here_ , he promised himself. _We'll begin on a fresh, clean slate… God knows we both deserve it_.

As acceptance of his past coursed through him, Jace felt his body relax, albeit momentarily, until realization of what awaited him—the consummation of his marriage—gripped him. Almost immediately, shivers of anxiety rippled through him and caused his body to stiffen.

Clary would finally be his, and they would be each other's firsts. Truthfully, while the thought excited him, Jace felt scared all the same; the mere idea of loving someone, of giving his entire being to her, was an all-new experience for him.

What if he didn't know what to do? What if he made a complete and utter fool of himself? And worse, what if he hurt Clary? What if she regretted him after?

Jace didn't have time to dwell on his worries as he heard the sound of the doorknob rattling and the barely audible creak of the door as it opened and closed. He looked over his shoulder, just in time to see Clary twisting the lock on the door with a small click.

She leaned her back against the door, her emerald green eyes finding his aureate ones from across the room, and instantly, all his doubts and apprehensions faded away.

Smiling, Jace stood up and walked over to the middle of the room. "Hi," he said, his voice no more than a gentle whisper.

Clary didn't say a word. Instead, she sashayed her way over to him while slowly removing the lacy gloves from her hands and tossing them onto the ground, a coquettish smile on her face as if she were teasing him. Jace let out a breathless chuckle at her display, and after what seemed like forever, she was finally standing in front of him.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she finally said, dropping her gaze from his sheepishly. He looked at her, stunned. It was a complete change from her playful demeanor not a minute ago. Where had his brazen girl disappeared to? "Izzy…"

"I figured as much," Jace said, planting his hands at her delicate waist. He nosed her forehead, silently urging her to look up. "You don't have to explain."

"Hm," Clary nodded and placed her hands on his chest, her movements tentative and unsure. She still wasn't looking at him.

"Look at me, Clary," Jace said, stroking the side of her face. "Sweetheart?" Clary finally relented and looked up at him. He smiled down at her. "What's wrong, love?"

She bit her lip, as if she were hesitating. "I'm scared, Jace," she confessed.

"I know, Clary," he cut her off. "If it helps any…you would be my first, too."

His wife looked at him with an expression that conveyed her genuine surprise.

"You offend me," he said, trying not to let the hurt show on his face. "I'm a gladiator, Clary. We're not treated like soldiers. They don't bring us to brothels or let us consort with women. I thought you knew that."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't trying to imply anything. I just—I had this silly thought that a man of your looks would have had the experience of doing it at least once."

" _Never,_ " Jace confirmed in a serious tone. "Even if I had been given the opportunity to, I would have never squandered away my body before marriage. That's not the kind of man I was raised to be by my parents." He gave her a meaningful look. "I was doubtful that I would ever find true love, but I'm glad that I saved myself for you. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life but at least I can do this one thing right by you."

"I love you," she smiled at him.

"I'm scared," he blurted out. Almost immediately, he could feel the heat rise on his cheeks and on the back of his neck. He had meant to say _I love you too_ but those two words had come out instead.

"Why so?" Now it was Clary's turn to caress his cheek comfortingly.

"We're both new to this," he stammered, reiterating her unspoken fears. "I'm afraid I would do something stupid or hurt you—I don't know."

"I spoke to my old nurse, Dorothea, this morning…under the guise of a curious princess reeling from the exciting news of her betrothal to the king of Alicante," she rambled. "She said that it's perfectly normal for a girl to experience pain the first time," Clary explained. "But don't worry, Jace. No matter what happens, I trust you…with my heart…and with my body…"

Jace smiled down at her. "And you have my unwavering trust as well." His heartbeat was racing so fast he thought he was going to explode. "Please don't be afraid to tell me if you need me to stop…"

"Well, I can't exactly tell you to stop if you haven't even started now, can I?" Clary giggled as she teased him.

Jace laughed. "Fine! Oh forgive me, my wife." He winked at her as he said the word 'wife'. "Allow me to make it up to you?"

"Mmm-hmm," she hummed.

He pulled away to stare into her eyes. Entranced by those luminous green depths that shone far brighter than any emerald stone he had ever seen in his life, Jace felt as if he was falling in love with Clary all over again—this time a deeper and stronger love than he had ever felt for her before. Maybe it was the growing lust in his body talking, but Jace was convinced that it was the wholesome truth.

He loved Clary with every breath and pulse reverberating through his body. And as he saw himself reflected in her pupils, he could tell that she reciprocated his love for her on the same level; that she was ready for this; ready to give her whole self to him, just as he was ready to give himself to her.

"Give me the signal, sweetheart," he whispered.

Clary's lips quirked into a smile and she nodded, pushing herself away from him so he could gaze fully upon her slender form. They were now back to where they had first started, before their fumbling conversations had gotten the best of them and put a halt in their progress. Except this time, there was a certain resilience that wasn't there before.

"Go on, Jace." The words were a sweet invitation, giving him permission to proceed.

 _Go on, Jace._

 _What are you waiting for?_

Jace swallowed against his nervousness, and slowly reached his hand out towards Clary. He rested it on the small of her back, waiting patiently for her to make the next move. Clary returned his gesture with a sheepish smile and took a step closer to him, placing her tiny hands on his muscular chest, her green eyes playfully telling him to go on, that it was his turn to move.

He nearly laughed aloud at the hilarity of their situation, how despite their nervousness, they were both still strangely calm enough to maintain a light, joking demeanor with each other, as though they were playing a game rather than preparing to consummate their love.

He brushed his knuckles over her cheeks, eliciting a content sigh from her lips, and then slowly, he began to undo the strings on the back of her dress.

 _Keep it steady. Steady, hands… Fingers, don't slip…_

As each string fell loose from their careful knot, exposing each new strip of bare ivory skin, Jace swallowed hard in his throat. He skimmed his fingers over her newly exposed back, his touch feather-light and soft as they moved lower, and lower still.

When his entire warm, callused hand finally made contact with her fully bare back, Clary shivered, breaking their intense gaze to rest her head against his tunic-clad chest, and Jace smiled wider to himself in satisfaction, feeling her grow putty in his arms.

 _Steady, hands…_

Aided by the moonlight streaming past the voile curtains, he curiously explored the expanse of her back, ghosting over each varying hue of her silky skin.

Jace frowned to himself. Squinting hard at a particular spot on her back where her skin appeared slightly greenish, he suddenly ascertained—but not without a flare of unmitigated rage—faint bruises and welts decorating the expanse of Clary's back, a clear manifestation of her father's abuse. His blood boiled with fire. He knew he should have expected this—Clary had told him as much that her father hit her—but it still came as a shock to him. How could anyone, and in this instance, her _biological_ _father_ , hurt a girl as sweet as Clary?

"Please, don't be angry with me." Clary's tormented words knocked him out of his angry haze. He hadn't even realized that his sole attention had been focused on a particular bruise on her back, and that he had been practically glowering at it. "I know it's ugly—"

"It's not you I'm angry with, love." Jace's golden eyes softened, and he brushed his lips over the crinkled skin in between her eyebrows. "Believe me when I tell you that I don't see these bruises on your back as anything less than what you already are to me. You're so beautiful _and_ strong…" He kissed her chastely on the mouth. "If you can love me despite the ugly scars on _my_ back, then I can love you for yours."

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, Clary visibly relaxed in his arms again and dropped her head into his chest in relief. "I love you," she said, the words sounding muffled against his chest.

Jace dropped a kiss onto the crown of his wife's head, smiling. _Valentine can wait_ , he thought as he brushed his fingertips over each faint welt and bruise on Clary's back. _The whole world can just wait._

Every touch of her bare silky skin against his callused one drew shivers from deep within him. His belly erupted with desire, temporarily burying the anger and hatred towards his enemy. Upon removing the Elven circlet from her head, he gently ruffled her hair, his heart overfilling with love for this woman—his wife. He would do anything for her.

"My turn," Clary's words were spoken with newfound courage.

She lifted her head from his chest, and Jace watched with complete adoration as her dainty fingers began to meticulously trace the rich, embroidered patterns on his tunic. When she reached the hem, she paused and looked up at him shyly through her eyelashes; then without another word, she pushed the fabric off of him.

Jace helped her, only because he was too aware of their height difference. He flexed his muscles slightly once his torso was bare, and let the tunic fall to the floor. Clary's hands were back on him, the tips of her fingers grazing the ridges of wiry arms. She leaned forward into him, then kissed the small, star-shaped scar on his left shoulder.

Then, slowly, she ran her hands up and down his perfectly chiseled chest, copying his action on her back earlier. Her emerald green eyes followed her fingers as they brushed over his every dip and curve, tracing over his faded old scars so lightly that Jace's breath hitched in pleasure. Cupping the back of her neck, he began kissing a path down from her temple to her cheekbone then to her jaw, before finally melding his lips with her full, rosy ones.

Their mouths moved softly and gently at first, but quickly grew harder and more passionate, stoking the flames of wanton desire in their bodies. They kissed as if two famished and thirsty souls that had finally discovered their sustenance, yet, they took their time too, as if savoring the taste of each other.

Time spun around them, the minutes trickling into hours, but the two lovers remained oblivious of it all, so consumed were they by the sea of unbridled passion. Nothing else mattered. Not Valentine. Not the threat looming above their lives. _Nothing._

This night belonged to them, and for as long as God willed it, they would spend every waking moment honoring the love they shared for each other.

* * *

 **October 5, 508**

The symphony of crickets slowly simmered down to silence as the crowing of roosters dominated the peaceful morning air. In the distant horizon, twilight faded to greet the dawn, the hues of lavender and rosy pink tingeing the celestial sky as the tranquil sun steadily made its descent. As always, dawn was the hour of fresh beginnings, of miracles, and of hope.

Just beyond the walls of the Idrisian palace, the young couple laid peacefully in repose, their bodies entangled in the warm sheets of their four-poster bed as they basked in the afterglow of their recent union. They laid on their sides, Clary's ivory back against Jace's golden-tanned front, her delicate head tucked neatly underneath his strong chin. His arm was draped tightly across her thin waist, holding her protectively, even within the streams of unconsciousness.

"Mmm…" Clary's eyelids slowly fluttered open. Mind still foggy with sleep, she snuggled further into the warmth emanating from behind her. The arms encasing her in a protective embrace grew tighter, drawing a smile from her lips.

She carefully rolled over onto her back, absentmindedly aware of how her body felt slightly tender, but sated. Somehow, it was a shy but welcome reminder of the night of passion she had shared with her husband, of when they had been joined together in the most intimate of ways.

Clary smiled at that. Her _husband_. She was Jace's, and his only. No other man could ever touch her the way he could, and she was perfectly content to accept the fact.

Blinking away the haze of sleep, she recalled the sweet, passionate kisses exchanged between them, the gentleness of each and every one of his touches, the slowness of his pace as if he was savoring every moment of their intimacy. She recalled gazing into his aureate eyes as he had hovered above her, remembering how they had shone with desire, adoration and a love so deep and so tender; how he had looked at her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

Clary brought Jace's hand up to her lips and kissed it, her eyes closing and her lips lingering on his skin as she made a silent oath. _I will never forsake him,_ she vowed. Their marriage was a gift, and Clary would curse herself thousandfold if she didn't spend every single moment treasuring Jace and loving him the way he did her. She would be there for him now and after, for better or for worse.

As she came face-to-face with his bare chest, Clary looped her free arm underneath Jace's before nuzzling her face into the vast expanse of his firm muscles and inhaling him deeply. She loved the smell of him—the smell of soap, sunshine, and something uniquely Jace. It was extremely comforting that it made her toes tingle with delight.

Slowly tilting her head up, her smile grew impossibly larger as she gazed upon the sleeping face of the man she loved. He looked so different, so young and peaceful in his sleep. Unable to help herself, she began peppering light butterfly kisses on his chin and along the side of his jaw, stopping only when she heard his soft, deep chuckles as he was roused from the realm of dreams.

"I hope to God that it's you, Clary, and not Alec," Jace's husky voice whispered against her ear. She giggled when she felt him sniffing her hair, the feel of his warm breath against her skin tickling her. "Hmm, the sweet scent of strawberries and my favorite-sounding giggles. Definitely my Clary."

"Open your eyes," she urged him softly.

Jace smirked. "Hmm, no. I want to sleep some more."

Clary laughed at his playfulness. "Please? It's morning." She nudged his nose with her own. "If you wake up, I promise I'll reward you with kisses."

"As I recall, I was already being rewarded by kisses before I woke up," Jace said. "But…if my _wife_ insists…"

Clary watched intently as his eyelids flit open, his bronze eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly with the movement. Gazing into his mesmerizing golden orbs felt like a reward in itself—she had never felt so much love from a single _look_.

"Why, hello there." Jace cupped her cheeks in his callused hands, then gave her a soft, gentle kiss on the lips. Unwilling to be outdone, Clary responded to him eagerly, entwining her fingers into his silky tresses that were heavily mussed from sleep.

"Good morning, Jace."

"A good morning it is, indeed," he whispered huskily against her lips when they broke apart, lingering long enough to plant several more chaste kisses. "Did you sleep well?" He asked, brushing his knuckles across her cheek affectionately.

Clary hummed. "I did," she smiled. "Best sleep I've had in ages. My husband kept me warm all night."

"Did he now?" Jace chuckled. "Well, I'm glad. My wife was snoring a little so it took me a while before I actually fell asleep."

Clary shoved at his chest with a scoff. "I do not snore!"

"Yes, you did. You sounded like a little tiger. Adorable," he said, pinching her nose.

"I don't snore," Clary repeated with a pout.

"Regardless of the matter, I love you." Jace kissed the crown of her head. "My love. My life. My wife," he said, punctuating each sentence with a soft kiss.

Clary's heart danced at his proclamation. "I love you, too." Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, with her face buried into his chest, she murmured in a pleading tone, "I don't want you to go. I want you to stay here with me. _Forever_."

Jace sighed, the sound affecting her more deeply than she thought it would. It signaled that their time of playful morning romance was quickly approaching its end.

"You know I want to be with you wherever you are, sweetheart. Always," he said in a more serious tone. "But I have my duties as a gladiator. I need to go," he coaxed her in a gentle tone. His knuckles continued to rub smooth, rhythmic circles onto her bare back, and Clary felt herself begin to tear up. "There's only so much Jonathan can do to cover for me…for us. And I can't take advantage of that. I would rather we have a little time to spend with each other every day, than none at all. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, more curtly than she had intended it to be.

"Clary? We will see each other again tonight," he reminded her.

Clary nodded and kissed her husband chastely on the mouth. Giving him a stiff smile, she quickly turned away from him before she could burst into actual tears. She knew that she was behaving irrationally, but she couldn't help it. She wished that they could be a normal couple that didn't have to hide their relationship; she wished that they could spend as much time together as possible without having to worry about _time_.

"Oh," Clary bit her lip, trying to stifle her mild wince of pain.

"Clary?"

"I'm fine, Jace. Just a little sore, is all. It'll pass," she said, pressing her hand firmly against her lower abdomen. She reached for the white satin robe sitting on top of her dresser, and covered her petite form with it.

"You should take the morning to rest up," Jace said, sounding every bit like a concerned husband should. "I think a long soak in warm water should help."

"Okay, I'll remember to do just that."

Crossing the short distance to her vanity table, Clary tried as far as possible not to wince or limp due to her sore muscles. She picked up her hairbrush upon sitting down, and began the meticulous process of brushing her hair. She could feel Jace's eyes on her, watching and scrutinizing her every move, and the last thing she wanted was to drive him crazy with worry about her, or to realize that despite how happy she was about their marriage, she was sorely depressed about their situation.

Married or not, there was still the impending nuisance that came in the form of her father _and_ Sebastian Verlac. What were Jace's plans of getting rid of those two? When would she be able to drop the pretenses of being Clarissa Morgenstern, supposed bride-to-be to the young king of Alicante, and claim her right to live as Clary Herondale—Jace's wife? When would they be free to live as they please?

"Clary," Jace's voice snapped her out of her despondent thoughts. Clary's eyes, which had been blindly trained on the mirror, widened when she realized that her husband was now standing directly behind her, clothed in a pair of black shorts. She set the hairbrush on the table, then placed her hand on top of his as he rested it on her shoulder.

"I'm fine, Jace," she whispered, plastering on a fake smile.

"I _am_ sorry that I have to leave you for the day…I really am."

"I know," she said. "And I'm not angry at you for that. I understand, Jace."

"I didn't have the chance to say this to you last night, but thank you, Clary." She looked at his reflection in the mirror, confused. "Thank you for marrying me," he clarified. "I know that none of this is easy for you—it isn't easy for me either…I…" He paused and swallowed, looking guilty. "I wish that I could give you everything a happy marriage should be. I wish I could give you everything you want…I want to make you happy—"

"But I am happy, Jace," she reassured him with a genuine smile. "I'll admit; I'm bitter towards the circumstances surrounding our marriage—the secrecy, the threats, my _father_ —but I am not disappointed in _us_. When it comes down to us, I regret nothing. I know what I was doing when I said 'I do'. You are, and will always be, the obvious choice for me."

Jace nodded.

"I have faith that we'll have the chance to be even happier in the future," she confided with a hopeful grin. "We both just have to be patient and deal with how things are at the moment. I'll get through the day like I always have…but when night comes, you're all mine, _Shadowhunter_."

"Yours. I like the sound of that." Jace kissed her head. "I love you—so much," he said. "I'll _always_ be thinking of you, you know. No matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing, you'll always be on my mind," he murmured against her hair, then kissed the sensitive skin behind her ear.

Clary finally turned around and hooked her arms around his waist. "I'll be thinking of you too. Every second of every minute of every passing hour." She stood up and kissed him. "Come straight home to me when you're done."

Jace grinned down at her cheekily. "Well, better tell that to Jon." He turned away from her to put on his normal gladiator training clothes. "He's the one bailing me out, after all."

Clary shook her head at him as he pecked her on the cheek. He knelt down in front of the fireplace, where the entrance to the secret passages was beckoning him forward.

"I'll see you tonight, my beloved wife." He winked at her. "Try not to miss me too much."

Clary scrunched her nose at him. "Careful. Any more arrogant remarks and I'm afraid that your head won't fit in those tunnels."

"Worry not, my head is perfectly fine. As a matter of fact—"

"Bye, Jace," Clary cut him off with an exasperated groan.

"Eager to be rid of me?"

" _Jace._ "

"Adieu, my love." And with a final wave, her husband was gone.

* * *

 _ **A/N: My Clace babies are finally together. Cue celebratory fanfare!**_

 _ **So I've edited this chapter a fair amount. In the original, Jace was still a slave when he married Clary. But obviously that isn't the case here (Thanks Jon!)**_

 _ **I've also decided to zoom in onto the emotional aspects of Clary and Jace's relationship rather than emphasise the details of their physical chemistry.** **After all, their love isn't built on blind passion, but their sense of honor and respect for one another. Besides, it's refreshing when characters take the time to appreciate each other beyond their base desires, won't you agree?**_

 ** _Sidetrack: Can you believe that I started this story back in late 2014, then completed it in 2015? That's like 3, 4, nearing FIVE years ago... It's kinda crazy to me that I am still editing_** ** _it in 2018! Seriously!_**

 _ **Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. We're getting close to the end... Things will get more exciting in the next one. Until then review!**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	19. Chapter 18: Fight And Flight

**_Author's Note:_**

 ** _Hello lovelies, here's another long and gruelling chapter for you! I apologize that this update came later than expected. I was about to update on Wednesday when I re-read the chapter and decided, "Nope. I got to edit this thing again." So this chapter, like every other chapter in this story, has been edited an average of 6-8 times since 2014. Crazy much?_**

 ** _Anyways, thanks to all you wonderful people who reviewed last chapter! And to everyone who's still reading/following this story, much love to all of you :)_**

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 18: FIGHT...AND FLIGHT**

 **December 25, 508 _(part I)_**

Clary stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom, her emerald green eyes trained attentively, almost as if she were scrutinizing her own reflection. A midnight blue silk robe hung loosely over her unclothed thin frame, revealing a generous amount of fair skin decorated sparsely with freckles—freckles which she knew her husband loved, as he did her other flaws. A smile graced her lips, albeit momentarily, her heart skipping a beat at the very thought of the word 'husband' before a solemn expression quickly overtook her face.

It had been over two months since their wedding, and now, they were only a mere five days away from the gladiator games.

 _The games_ , Clary thought morosely, her eyes unwittingly fluttering shut as if it physically pained her to think about it.

Truthfully, it _did_. Every time she was reminded of the games, her heart clenched a little tighter, and it became slightly harder to breathe. She hated the games; she hated especially how it hovered over her marriage with Jace like an ominous cloud, ready to obliterate every shred of happiness they had and send them spiraling headfirst into oblivion—which wasn't far off from the truth, really. If Jace failed to kill Valentine, Clary knew without a doubt in her mind that they would all be in deep peril. Jace would more than likely be sentenced to a public execution while Clary and Jon would be severely punished for their treason; they would probably end up like her mother and Luke, their bodies dismembered and dumped in the Forbidden Forest. And what made her feel infinitely worse was that she could do _nothing_ to prevent Jace's confrontation with Valentine from happening.

Already, she had lost count of the number of times she had tried—and failed—to coax Jace against his decision. He'd claimed that it was for the greater good, that the sake of their family's future hinged on this very move to challenge—and kill—Valentine. To a certain degree, she felt like contesting that he was being driven by selfish delusions of grandeur, and that perhaps, he had taken one too many hits to the head to be capable of rational thought. Oh, why couldn't her husband just stick to anonymity as he'd always had instead of calling unnecessary, and quite possibly, _deadly_ attention to himself? Didn't he love her enough to understand the importance of his own self-preservation? Why take the risk of exposing himself? Was he really so reckless, so thoughtless, so _impetuous_ as to put himself in the direct line of her father's firing squad?

Clary sighed, long and hard, as she tried to release her grip on her stormy emotions. It would do her no good to worry obsessively over the future, or of her husband's fate which was no more certain than her own. Since Jace had shared his plans with her, she'd spent the last couple of weeks thinking it over, and over, and _over_ again.

Begrudgingly, she had to admit that the reason why the pitfalls were so stark to her was because of her consuming fear that she might lose Jace in the process. But of course, if she were to think deeper, beyond that very fear, she could see that there were certain merits to Jace's intentions as well. Who better to rise up against the tyrannous king than the former prince of Idris who had both seen and experienced firsthand the depth of the former's cruelty? And as Jace had morbidly joked, there was also a certain sort of poetic justice there by forcing Valentine to face the very 'monster'—the gladiator he had helped to create in the first place. Still, as much as she might be able to agree with her husband, that didn't mean that she had to _like_ his ideas.

"God, why didn't anyone warn me about having to deal with stubborn, inane husbands before I decided to get married to one?" She muttered to herself.

Absently, Clary's gaze followed the path traced by her fingers as they slowly trailed down her body, beginning from the narrow valley of her breasts and ending at the area just above her navel. She turned to her side, her neck still angled towards the mirror as her hand gingerly smoothed over her pale, flat stomach, rubbing it curiously, wonderingly.

"Admiring yourself, are we?" An amused voice cut through Clary's silent reverie.

Her heart thundered in her chest and she immediately dropped her hand, her fingers moving to hastily tie her robe. Once she was certain that she was as presentable—or rather, as _decent_ as one could be in a flimsy robe, she whipped around to face the intruder, an annoyed scowl marring her porcelain-like face.

"Isabelle," Clary said in a scolding tone, "What are you doing here?" She clutched the robe tighter around her body, a furious blush coating her cheeks.

The raven-haired girl smirked unabashedly at her reaction, clearly having no sense to apologize for her intrusion. "No need to look so flustered, Milady. It's nothing I haven't seen before," she said in a somewhat amused tone.

Clary gave her a withering look. "I believe that I dismissed you an hour ago," she said tersely. "You should leave. Jace will be home soon." She brushed past Isabelle as she stepped through the doorway and into her bedroom, her handmaiden following her closely behind.

Clary huffed in annoyance as she plopped herself down in front of her vanity. She reached for her hairbrush and ran it through her already tamed curls, deliberately trying to distract herself from her embarrassment. Her entire demeanor radiated 'hostile', and for that reason alone, she wished that Isabelle would get the hint that she wanted to be left alone.

Unfortunately, her handmaiden chose to ignore all of that, instead opting to watch her agitated movements with a raised eyebrow. "Keep it up and you won't have any hair left," she warned.

Clary sighed in frustration, but stilled her hand. "What are you still doing here, Iz?" She asked wearily, though there was an obvious effort on her part to maintain a respectful tone.

"Jon sent a message for you."

At the mention of her brother, Clary perked up and turned around to face her friend. "Oh? What did he say?" She asked her expectantly.

"He told me that he and Jace will be home late tonight," Izzy replied. "They're off somewhere in an important meeting with some very important people. Didn't say _where_ or _who_."

Clary frowned, her face falling even further at the news. Lately, it was all Jace and Jon were up to: meetings. She wasn't certain when it had started for her brother, but Jace had quickly been inducted into their little secret club with Patrick Penhallow, and subsequently, found himself being roped into their routine of clandestine meetings almost every other night. She sometimes worried over how much he was pushing himself, as if the long hours of intensive physical training at the barracks weren't taxing enough. Jace never complained about it though. Instead, he took everything her brother requested of him in his stride.

Likewise, the past couple of weeks had also birthed a marked change in her brother as he began devoting a large portion of his time and attention to similar matters, among them monitoring the members of their father's council, and approaching those he felt were trustworthy enough to help them in their cause to overthrow the corrupt king. It was undoubtedly a dangerous risk on their part, since there was always the threat of betrayal and her father's spies. But as Jon had reasoned, it was a _necessary_ risk. After all, how could the people of Idris possibly believe Jace's claims about Valentine's crimes if he had no one important to back him up? Although Jon was a strong and potent supporter of Jace, given his authority as heir to the throne, he was only one man—he wasn't enough. But, with a few members of her father's own council on his side, Jace would definitely stand a better chance against Valentine.

Clary smiled at the thought of her brother. She could see now that the young prince had been suppressing his talents. Belying his penchant for compassion and child-like mischief, there was brilliance, coupled by strong leadership potential and even stronger adherence to an upstanding moral code. Oh, if only their father realized how much he had underestimated his only son…as well as the man he thought he had rid himself of when he'd left him to fend for himself as a slave. If only he knew how the pair—his very own son and his enemy's son—had teamed up to take him down… Valentine Morgenstern was in for a rude awakening.

Speaking of the duo, Clary had to admit—it often tugged at her heartstrings when she watched her husband's interactions with her brother. The easy camaraderie depicted by their relentless teasings of each other, the sometimes stern but meaningful exchanges between them, then the affectionate pats and _hugs_ when they thought no one else was watching… All of it spoke of a decades-long relationship between brothers who trusted each other implicitly, when in reality, they had only known each other a few months. It was nothing short of wonderful. This was the family she had always craved: her, Jace and Jon. If only those two didn't disappear with each other so often and left her behind worrying so much.

"Daydreaming about lover boy?" Isabelle teased, forcing Clary's attention back to the present.

"Hmm," Clary confirmed softly. "And Jon. I miss them both. I wish they weren't so busy all the time so we could do _normal_ things together. And Jace…" she sighed, resisting the urge to pout, "I wish we could just be any other ordinary couple. I wish we didn't have to worry about the games, or my father…" She trailed off, eyes staring blankly into the mirror, at her own reflection again. Had she always looked this pale?

"Don't forget about Sebastian," Izzy supplied unhelpfully, causing Clary's chest to constrict at the unwelcome reminder.

 _Sebastian…of course, how can I ever forget about him?_ She thought as a deep sense of loathing rose within her. Indeed, she envied her brother and husband thoroughly, for while they had been spending their time productively preparing for their confrontation with Valentine, Clary had been forced to endure the tediously worthless and inconvenient preparations for her purported wedding to a villain who was no better than her own father. She resented the charade almost as much as Sebastian Verlac himself, but as was the story of her life, she had no choice but to go along with the arrangement. Loathe it as she might, now was certainly not the appropriate time to reveal that she was, in fact, already married.

Clary sighed for quite possibly the thousandth time that night. As if it weren't bad enough knowing that they had to face Valentine… Sebastian was just another big unwanted problem they had to contend with, too. _Maybe_ the idea of the detestable excuse for a man would have been a teensy bit bearable if he weren't in the same kingdom—within the very same palace walls as her right now—but the fact of the matter is, he _was_.

Clary shuddered at the thought. God knew where he was creeping about at _this_ very moment. Either way, she didn't have the compulsion to find out. He could scale the glass towers and fall to his death for all she cared. Actually, she wished that were the case. At this point, she would give anything to have one less knave to worry about.

"Clarissa Adele Morgenstern, pay attention, will you?" Isabelle snapped when she noticed that the princess was, once again, knee-deep lost in her thoughts.

"It's Herondale!" Clary corrected her in an impatient-sounding growl, her gaze morphed into a steely glare. "I would appreciate it if you were to address me by my proper name."

"Getting a little touchy, aren't you, Mrs Herondale?" Izzy teased her again. "Hmm, is there any possibility that we can attribute this little conniption to the fact that you're, say, expecting _another_ Herondale?" Her voice rose to a soprano-like tone at the end, prompting Clary's mouth to fall open in shock at the suggestion.

"Not that I've been intentionally studying you or anything, Milady, but lately you've picked up on some rather strange eating habits," the handmaiden ploughed on, oblivious to Clary's discomfort towards the subject matter. "Snacking on pickles…dousing lamb sausages with maple syrup…and oh, eggs!" She pointed a finger in Clary's direction, her lips stretched into an amused grin. " _Especially eggs!_ I mean, since when do you even like eggs, Clary?"

Clary's eyes widened, only now realizing her peculiar eating habits of late. Truthfully, she had barely paid attention to any of the instances Isabelle had just listed when they'd happened, for she was far too often lost within the confines of her own mind. She ate, if only to fulfill her basic physiological needs. Of what consequence was it that she suddenly chose to indulge herself in food that were off her usual palate? But Isabelle's implications did make _sense_ …

"I-I… N- _no_ ," she stuttered, shaking her head so furiously that she was almost guaranteed to give herself a whiplash. Her _pregnant_? As plausible as it was, the idea was something she found incredibly difficult to grasp. She was only sixteen and recently married! Her husband—and the only man at this point capable of fathering her child—was a gladiator and a wanted man at that. And the timing… No, she just _couldn't_ be pregnant.

"No. No, no, no, Iz!" Her voice suddenly rose to a shout as she continued to shake her head, her green eyes wide and glassy. "I-I can't be pregnant," she whispered, sounding close to tears. " _I can't_ …" Her tiny fist curled around her hair, pulling at it roughly as she muttered repeated words of self-denial. After a while, as if succumbing to defeat, she crumpled in on herself, arms wrapped around her own tiny waist with a look of pure anguish on her face.

Isabelle's demeanor quickly switched from amusement to thoughtful before she slowly knelt down beside her friend. Then cautiously, she reached her hand to stroke Clary's hair in a display of sisterly affection. "Shh, Clary. I apologize…I shouldn't have joked about that." Palming the princess's cheek, she forced her to meet her eyes. "Really. I'm sorry I upset you."

Clary nodded but said nothing in response. Isabelle knew that it was a sign that she should probably stop, but she didn't. "I know it isn't my place to say this, but Clary, I think you should brace yourself for the possibility that you might be with child," she said in a gentle voice. "You and Jace have consummated your marriage, haven't you?"

Clary visibly swallowed. "We have," she said, her voice sounding weak and hoarse, even to her own ears. "I haven't had my monthly bleeding since our wedding either," she confessed, "but I've never had a regular cycle, so it probably means nothing."

They both remained quiet for a long time as they mulled over Clary's words, the only sound piercing the stillness was that of the latter's heavier than usual breathing.

Finally, Clary calmed herself enough to speak again. "I just can't be pregnant, Iz," she whispered, her voice thick with suppressed tears.

Isabelle's forehead creased into a frown but she mercifully held her tongue.

"I love Jace," Clary continued, "and I do want to have children with him, _but_ ," she looked into Isabelle's brown eyes, her emerald green eyes showing nothing but fear, "I can't be pregnant _now_. Not with all this danger running around. Not until I know that I can fall asleep peacefully with Jace every night without having to worry about tomorrow." Her breath hitched and Clary paused, a hand pressed against her heaving chest. "And even if I am…I don't want to know. I don't want to give Jace another reason to worry with everything he already has on his plate. I just— _I don't want to know_ ," she finished in a barely audible whisper, the hand she had been holding against her chest now subconsciously hovering over her flat stomach.

"But _if_ you are pregnant," Isabelle ventured in a careful tone, "do you think you'd ever consider having an abortion?"

Clary looked appalled by that. "How could you even suggest such a thing?" She nearly shrieked. The mere thought of killing an innocent child, one that happened to be her baby— _Jace's_ baby—was both unthinkable and unforgivable.

"Calm down," Isabelle said. "I was just _asking_. You said with the timing and all—"

"No, Isabelle," Clary cut her off sternly. "If I am pregnant, I will do everything in my power to protect my—" She stopped, unable to bring herself to say the word out loud, lest it turned out to be true. _My baby. I will do everything to protect my baby,_ she completed in her head.

"Good," Izzy said, much to her own surprise. For some reason, she looked satisfied and… _relieved_ by Clary's response? "Because if you ever considered something like that, we are going to have words. I won't let you deprive Jace of one of his only chances of having a family of his own, regardless of how dangerous the situation is."

"Can we please stop talking about this?" Clary asked, sounding desperate. "I told you, I don't want to _know_. It also means: I don't want to _talk_ about it."

"Clary?" Jace's voice rang out as he emerged from the fireplace. He was dressed in a rich navy blue tunic, another one of Jon's that he'd borrowed. He looked tired, his hair in a complete disarray and the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow lining his jaw. Tucked underneath his arm were the rest of his gladiator attire that he had changed out of earlier.

"Clary, I'm—" His red-rimmed golden eyes widened fractionally when he realized that Isabelle was there, too. "Oh, Izzy…you're here too."

"Your observation skills are astounding, Jace," Isabelle said wryly.

Jace rolled his eyes before setting down the oil lamp on the mantlepiece of the fireplace. "Cut me some slack, Iz. It's been a long day." He blew out the flame in a single huff, then turned to face the two women in the room. Izzy glared at him, irritated, but stayed quiet.

Discarding her hand to her side, Clary met Jace's eyes with her emerald ones. "Hey," she rasped out. "I thought you'd only be home much later with Jon. Izzy just told me that you had another meeting." She smiled at him weakly, but instantly felt a noticeable shift in the weight bearing down on her. She felt a little light again.

Jace placed his things on their bed before dragging a hand over his face sluggishly. "I did. But I was so tired that I could barely keep my head up for the first hour of our meeting. Your brother finally took pity on me and made me go home to rest. He said he'll come by later to talk to me," he explained as approached his wife. Noticing the drying tear tracks on her face, he halted his progress before swiftly turning his glare on the maid he regarded as his sister.

"Isabelle Sophia Lightwood," Jace said in a biting tone, "is there any particular reason why my wife was crying? If I find out that you had anything to do with it—"

"Oh, calm yourself down, Jace," Izzy interrupted with a roll of her eyes. "We were just reminiscing, and _Clary_ ," she turned her head briefly to share a conspiratorial glance with the princess, "got a little emotional when she was talking about her childhood."

Clary sent her friend a grateful nod, knowing that she was terrible at lying to Jace—or to anyone in general, for that matter. Even though she had promised that she wouldn't keep secrets from her husband, she didn't want to talk to him about the possibility of her being pregnant. It just wasn't something that she cared to think in the present or immediate future. After Valentine and Sebastian had been dealt with, then they could discuss it. Not a moment sooner than that.

Jace took a few quick strides, and within seconds, he was kneeling in front of his wife. Taking her hand into his much larger one, he planted a tender kiss to the back of it. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" He asked, not caring at all about the eavesdropper in the room.

"Yes," Clary replied honestly. "Better, now that you're here. I'm always better when I'm with you. I missed you, Jace," she said as she guided his face towards hers. But before their lips could meet, Izzy let out a deliberately loud cough.

"Still here," she drawled.

"Which begs the question, _why_?" Jace huffed exasperatedly at his childhood friend. "Honestly, Iz, are you really that incapable that I need to show you your way out?"

In a move that was reminiscent of a five-year-old Isabelle, she shot him a dagger look before stomping her foot petulantly. Under any other circumstances, it would have seemed comical, but neither Clary nor Jace were in the mood for laughing. The only other person they wanted to be with was each other. Isabelle, as _mean_ as it sounded, was an impediment.

"Fine. I know when I'm not wanted," Isabelle grumbled as she showed herself out of the room.

Once the door had swung shut, Jace went over to lock it, Clary trailing faithfully behind him. She gently pushed him against the door, hands subconsciously trailing down his chest. "I'm glad you're home," she told him. Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. "When Izzy told me you and Jon were going to be late, _again_ , I nearly broke down. You've been gone a lot… I miss falling asleep in your arms."

Jace bent down to meet her halfway, his strong arms wrapped around her waist to support her. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry about that," he murmured against her lips as he continued kissing her. "I've been a neglectful husband lately—and that's not okay. You're supposed to be my first priority. Honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing at those meetings half the time. Jon leads, and I just listen. I realized early on in our meetings that I have no intention of being king, though I'd be glad to be the one to remove Valentine from his throne. The whole political scene just isn't me, you know? I'd rather be a military strategist. Jon is a much better fit—"

"You're adorable when you ramble," Clary interjected with a smile.

Jace frowned. "I wasn't rambling."

"Mmm, you were. You always ramble when you think that I'm upset with you. Which I'm not, by the way," she said, poking him in the stomach.

Jace looked sheepish. "Fine. You caught me there."

"And don't think for a second that you have, in any way, neglected me the past few weeks," she said, holding on to his waist. "Yes, you've been busy, but you're always here with me at the end of each night and in the morning when I wake up, aren't you?"

"My love, there's nowhere else I'd rather be than to be by your side…"

"And you're here now…" She bit her lip, her hand teasing the collar of his tunic.

Jace sucked in a sharp breath when her fingers brushed his skin. "I am." His golden eyes were hooded with exhaustion, but at the same time, a very much _awake_ desire.

Clary moved her hands into his golden mop of hair and he let out a soft groan. "Come, husband mine," she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. "We should retire," she said as Jace dropped his head into the crook of her neck and pulled her body flush against his.

Without lifting his head, he shook his head and tightened his arms around her waist. "Not yet," he said, his voice sounding hoarse, vulnerable. "Just hold me. I want you to hold me."

Clary kissed his hair. "Okay," she said as she ran a hand up and down the nape of her husband's neck, the other one caressing his lower back in slow circles. She felt him exhale quietly before he began peppering soft kisses onto her skin, eliciting a surprised gasp from her. "Jace," she tried protesting but it came out as a meek whisper instead.

"Jace," she tried again, this time gently pushing him away from her by the shoulders.

He looked down to where her hands were holding him at arms' length away from her, then returned his gaze to her face. The intense look of hurt on his face instantly made Clary's heart throb with contrite and she cupped his cheeks, her thumbs smoothing over the lines on his face.

"Oh, Jace…" Clary murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to deny you or push you away. I just thought you would be tired a-and—"

Clary was cut off by Jace seizing her lips in a kiss—a long and hard one.

"Don't be sorry," he told her when they broke apart, his hot breath intermingling with hers. "You were right. I had a long day, and I…I don't know what I was thinking—"

Clary placed her index finger over Jace's lips, silencing him. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, Jace. I'm your wife… I should be more understanding of you," she said, a self-reproaching look on her face. "You've given me so much—"

"And _you_ have given me so much more in return, Clary," Jace interrupted her, his tone as gentle as his touch on her. His golden eyes burned brightly into her emerald green eyes, showing the love and forgiveness in them. "You need to remember that, sweetheart. You need to stop feeling as if you owe me your whole entire existence because you don't. It's okay if you to say no to me. It's okay if you don't want to."

"But I hardly do anything for you," Clary muttered. "I feel so useless sometimes."

"You're not." Clary opened her mouth to protest but Jace gently clamped his hand over her mouth and gave her a stern look. "Listen to me, Clary. I _don't_ ," he stressed on the word with a firm shake of his head, "expect you to wield a sword next to me when I take down Valentine. Bravery or worth is neither measured nor defined by fighting, or by killing someone. You make me stronger every day just by being with me, by being _you_ , and that's more than I could ever ask for. That's more than enough for me."

The corner of Clary's lips curled upwards into a small smile. "Just by being me?" She joked, raising her eyebrows. "You mean, the whole whiny, crying damsel-in-distress?"

Jace clucked his tongue in disagreement. "For your information, I'd rather you cry than have the frigid reaction of a stone. And secondly, please…you're anything but whiny or a _damsel_ ," he said with a roll of his eyes. "As for the 'distress' part…yes, you do have the tendency to get into distressing situations sometimes, but then again, who doesn't need a little saving? You've saved me—"

"Alas, not from your gargantuan ego, though. You're too far gone in that end, I'm not sure an entire army would be able to save you from it."

Jace's smirk widened. "Interesting choice of words, my love. I, however, happen to know better. You love it. You love _me_ ," he whispered coyly.

"Hmm…" A tint of pink suffused through Clary's cheeks, though she dared not protest as her husband gently pulled her into his arms, effectively closing the distance between them.

* * *

Closing his eyes, Jace hummed contentedly as he felt his wife's dainty fingers sift through the soft strands of his golden-blond hair, her other hand rubbing his back slowly as if to lull him to sleep, as she would do to him every other night.

But contrary to his physiological desires, Jace found that sleep was, by far, the least accomplishable thing on his list tonight, as effortless and thoughtless as most made the action out to be. Perhaps sometime in the near future, the circumstances in his life would permit him to favor a better, more civil relationship with sleep, but for now, he brushed the urge to sleep off his mind. There was simply _no_ _time_ , especially with the date of the games approaching.

Though he tried his very best to stifle it, over time, his worries had grown to such an insurmountable degree that sometimes he found it hard to keep up with his own _act—_

Yes, it was mind-boggling how Jace Herondale had transformed into an almost full-time actor.

At the barracks, he had to pretend that he was an _ordinary_ gladiator—specially gifted in combat, but from an unsuspiciously ordinary background nonetheless. He had to pretend that his one goal was to fight and prevail in the games, not to plot against the wretched king. One would have thought this task of his to be simple; after all, he had lived in anonymity, known only by the alias 'Shadowhunter' for the past eight years. He could hold onto his secret just until the moment came for his revelation… But, oh, was the wait starting to grate on his nerves!

After having been freed by Jon, he'd come to hate hearing the name 'Shadowhunter' because of the abhor representation of the name, its sustained connection to his life as a slave. It made him skeptical of whether he was actually free, or if the perceived state of freedom itself was a ruse? Could he properly accept that he was a free man if he was still 'Shadowhunter' to the majority who knew him? And how _had_ he lived for the past eight years without being able to publicly acknowledge his true identity?

Jace couldn't deal with those frustrations openly at the barracks, so he did as he'd always had: he hid himself behind Shadowhunter's ostensibly impenetrable disposition and pretended that his thoughts and worries didn't exist. Jace Herondale, who? Oh no, that man didn't exist while he was surrounded by his gladiator peers. He was a _simple_ man whose life before he became Shadowhunter was insignificant and not worth remembering. Only Shadowhunter existed in the here and now. This act was familiar, but that didn't mean that it was painless for him. Jace wanted, more than anything, to just be Jace Herondale again. Period.

Now, with Jon and the council members, that particular problem of his might have seemed irrelevant given the transparency between him and his group of co-conspirators. Since Jon had graciously taken him under his wing, _they_ knew exactly who he was and what had happened to him in the last eight years; meaning, he didn't need to hide. But despite those hard facts, Jace still didn't know how or where he fit into the equation, other than his assignment as Valentine's executioner. Were it not for Jon, would they have accepted him into their circle? And what did they see when looked at him: an equal, a superior, or a pitiful slave?

He dared not ask, so he coped through a mask of stoicism and detachment, never once letting slip that he felt vulnerable, and admittedly, apprehensive of them. The only person he trusted was Jon whereas his acquaintances, questionable as they were, had been delegated to the gray area of his mind. Yes, he agreed that it was pointless to agonize over such things now, but being the person that he was—a boy who had, on multiple occasions, been betrayed to by people he'd believed he could trust—it was only inherent that Jace would worry. Coupled by the fact that nearly all of the current Clave members had been handpicked by Valentine—for reasons irrefutably to fulfill his own selfish means—Jace felt even more unsettled, even despite Jon's assurance that a handful of them had grown weary and reproachful of the king's rule over time.

Politics… It certainly left a bitter taste in his mouth. But because he felt that he owed a debt of gratitude to Jon, he would brave through the storm of ambivalence and uncertainty, his own discomfort and misgivings aside. Now, if only his subconscious mind could assimilate itself to his decisions, then he could spend his quiet moments in peace.

Jace sighed, burying his face further into Clary's skin. His wife, the source of his love, comfort and resilience, was also the reason for his continued pretences at home. He loved her so much that it broke him to think of how she would be if he were killed. So he put on a brave facade in front of her, all the while praying that he wouldn't end up disappointing her. The only small measure of consolation he could take from it was that he had never outrightly _lied_ to Clary, only pretended to be something more than he was: unflinchingly confident, invincible, unafraid.

Was he a cruel husband for doing so? Pretending was a form of deception, wasn't it? But what if his intentions were pure, that he only sought to inspire strength he didn't have himself, in his wife? Conviction could prove to be a powerful thing. If Clary believed in him, then he would be more than likely to succeed, wouldn't he? Jace knew that he was grasping at straws to justify his guilt and helplessness, but he couldn't stop.

On those grounds—the shame and contrition of his _deception_ , and stress put on him by his situation—he hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep in over two weeks. Oftentimes he found himself lying awake in bed, trying in vain to mimic his wife's breathing as she slept. Then when sleep continuously evaded him, he would turn onto his side and spend hours just staring at his wife, if only to brand her peaceful expression into his mind. If all else failed, he wanted his memory of Clary to be the one he carried with him as his mortal life faded away.

…Oh, how _lonely_ it must be to be dead, Jace thought, tears unconsciously filling his eyes at the thought of his own death. Before Clary, he would have welcomed death, a chance to be truly, completely free from the binds of slavery and his suffering on this temporal world. But since her overpowering presence in his life, she had altered his perspective completely: he wanted to live because he wanted to be with her. He wanted to accomplish everything with Clary. _Everything._ They had deserved as much, didn't they? For all the hardships they had encountered in their individual lives and over the span of their relationship, they deserved to have the chance to be like any other ordinary couple: passionate, happy, and recklessly in love… Didn't they?

"Jace?" Clary's gentle voice broke him out of his musings.

Jace closed his eyes, blinking away the tears. "Hmm?"

"What are you thinking about, honey?" She asked him in a gentle tone. That was how she was with him now—sensitive, gentle, affectionate and loving. It was as if she intuitively knew that their time together was running out, so it pointless to waste what little time they had left arguing over trivial matters. Absently, Jace wondered if that meant that he wasn't fooling her any with his pretences. It was probable, he realized, that he had discredited his wife's ability to discern when he was acting. She wasn't slow-witted, after all.

Smiling, Jace lifted his head to meet Clary's gaze. "Nothing you're not already well aware of, sweetheart," he told her softly, his fingers brushing her cheek with feather-like touches.

Clary slid her hands up his face, threading her fingers through his hair. "Jace?"

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me," she told him, and he complied, bending down to kiss her deeply yet languidly, his hands gently cupping the sides of her face.

There was no need to rush; these kisses were meant to be savored, relished, and appreciated. Temporarily releasing the inhibitions from his mind, Jace allowed himself to open up to Clary in a way that was akin to surrender. And in return, he could feel his awareness of her heighten, every taste, sound, scent and touch from her enhanced to such a degree that made him feel almost intoxicated with his love for her.

When their kiss ended, Jace rolled off Clary before stretching himself out on his side of the bed. She automatically curled up against him, her head pillowed by his chest and her arm draped around his waist. Feeling the need to hold her closer to him, he entwined their fingers together, using his other hand to stroke Clary's auburn tresses. The tips of her toes coyly teased the bottom of his foot, tickling him, before she looped her own legs around his. He smiled; the act felt so natural, as though they had been doing it for years instead of a short two months.

"Tell me about the meeting?" Clary prompted him.

It was one of the routines they had picked up on since their wedding, aside from exploring their newfound physical intimacy. As often as they showed their love for each other, they never missed the chance to talk about anything, from the simpler topics that bore little to no importance, to the deeper, more serious issues that affected, or _would_ affect, them. It was slightly intimidating, having to share parts of himself that were habitually kept private, but it was also rewarding to see how each conversation led to the strengthening of their relationship.

Jace closed his eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything," Clary answered, cueing that their conversation was more likely to be one of those of little weight. "I just want to hear you talk."

Jace nodded then paused for a moment, thinking. "Jon and I met up over at Patrick Penhallow's house earlier," he told her, his tone light, casual. "There were a few others there: Tomás Rosales, the brothers Malik and Kadir Safar, Matthias Gonsalez, and Senhor Monteverde." Clary nodded, having already heard of these men before. "They were debating about political reforms, restructuring the Clave once we've gotten rid of Valentine…things like that."

"Ah, I can see why you were barely able to keep your head up then," Clary said, glancing at him with a smile. "It must have been…monotonous."

"To put it nicely," Jace chuckled softly. "But they're good people, I suppose. So I've no other choice but to put up with them," he offered the last part unintentionally.

"Poor you," Clary remarked with a teasing glint in her eye. Then, in a more serious tone, she asked, "You're wary of them…aren't you?"

Jace swallowed as his disquieting thoughts about the Clave members resurfaced. If only Clary knew what an understatement the word 'wary' was. "Well, I have every right to be, don't I?"

"Do you trust them?" Clary rephrased herself.

Jace was at a loss of words. How many times had he asked himself that very same question, only to come up empty and vexed every single time? " _Should_ I?" He asked her.

"You do realize that answering my question with a question is kind of counterproductive to us trying to have a conversation here, Jace," Clary told him exasperatedly.

Jace sighed. "Honestly, I don't know, Clary. It's always been hard for me to give my whole trust to someone. You're one of the few exceptions, as far as I'm concerned."

"Why?"

Her question threw him off— _again_. "Why, what? Why am I distrustful of people?"

"Well, yes," Clary answered. "Have these people given you a reason to not trust them? As far as I can see, Jace, it's the one thing that's been bothering you the most. Do you think you and Jon made a mistake by letting these other Clave members in on our plans?"

"I don't know," he repeated truthfully. "How certain can I be that these people have renounced their loyalty to Valentine? They were his _chosen ones_. Valentine picked them because he believed that they saw eye-to-eye with his vision as a ruler. A complete change of heart seems a bit of a miracle, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but it isn't entirely impossible either," Clary said, shaking her head. "You know this firsthand from Jon and Patrick; Idris has been going downhill quicker than it has progressed. These people have no reason to stay faithful to my father. Yes, once upon a time, they might have aligned their principles with my father's, but times have changed. People _can_ change."

"Oh, I believe _that_ ," Jace said with an undercurrent of bitterness. "You're right, sweetheart. People can change. But what are the odds of them changing for a selfless cause?" He clenched his jaw, not quite knowing why he was letting his frustrations out on his wife. But it felt good to confide in her. "No, it's more likely they would change their _stance_ to suit their own means. Greed is more attractive than altruism, don't you agree?"

"I don't think even _you_ believe that, Jace," Clary answered. "I understand your reservations, _I do,_ but I think that they're misplaced in this instance."

Jace looked slightly affronted by his wife's remark but respected that she was entitled to her own opinion. "Are you saying what I think you're saying? That I need to have a little faith?"

Clary hummed in agreement. "Exactly. I put my faith in you. Maybe it's time you start putting your faith in other people, too," she said. "I trust my brother's judgment at least. If he thinks they're worth the risk, then they are. Besides," her tone became lighter then, "I like Patrick."

"No romantic feelings, I hope," Jace muttered.

"I'm going to ignore that comment of yours, simply because I'm disgusted you would suggest such a thing. Patrick is old enough to be my father," she scrunched her nose at him distastefully. "But as I was saying, Patrick is a good man. That's why Jon went to him when Brother Zachariah asked for a second witness for our wedding. We both trust him."

"Well, his late father, George Penhallow, did serve my father—and your grandfather, too—as Consul during their respective terms as king… He was a good and competent man from what I've heard, so one can only hope that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree as far as Patrick Penhallow is concerned," Jace said offhandedly. "But enough talk about that. How was your day, sweetheart?" He turned to her, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead.

Clary noticeably stiffened before exhaling a forlorn sigh. "Terrible," she relented. "I had my 'wedding' dress fitting earlier this afternoon."

Jace scowled. "Oh?"

"I hated every minute of it. And as if having to endure that wasn't horrendous enough, my father had to invite Sebastian over to Idris, too!" She said frustratedly, causing Jace's grip to tighten around Clary's waist—not enough to bruise her, but merely to remind himself that she was, in fact, _his wife_. "Anytime we're in the same room, he kept bothering me and staring at me as if I'm some piece of meat he could chew on. He even had the gall to try to kiss me!"

" _What?!_ " Jace demanded, his vision turning red.

"He didn't get the chance to," Clary quickly placated him. "Fortunately, Jon showed up just in time. When he saw that Sebastian was trying to corner me, he practically lost it. I had to drag him away before he could punch the living daylights out of him."

Jace's utter relief and disappointment was palpable. "You should have let your brother teach him a lesson. Looking at you is one thing, but to try to _touch_ you…" He let out a growl and clenched his fists. His heart pounded furiously, no doubt fueled by his jealousy-induced rage.

" _Peace_ , husband mine," Clary cupped the sides of his face, trying to coax him into regaining his composure. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Jace let out a cleansing breath, his chest heaving strenuously from the effort. "You are," he said through gritted teeth.

"So why waste your energy on being angry? He's not worth it, Jace."

"You're not worried in the least?"

"About Sebastian?" Clary rolled over so that she was almost lying on top of him. Shaking her head, she said, " _No._ All I care about is that _you_ are my rightful husband. As long as that fact remains, he can't have me. No priest or judge would be bold enough to challenge the laws of heaven. A woman can only have one husband. And for me, that's you." Her voice softened, as tears pricked the edges of her vision. "Just promise me that you will never leave me."

Jace grabbed her hand and placed it over his beating chest. "This is me promising you. As long as this heart beats, I will do everything I can to protect you, Clary. You believe that, don't you?"

Clary leaned down and kissed him. "Yes."

"Now," he said, clearing his throat in an attempt to lighten the mood, "How do you think I will fare with the crowd when the moment comes for me to call out His Royal Evilness?"

Clary chuckled. "Do you really need to ask? Jace, you're _the_ Shadowhunter. From the stories little Max told me about you, your fighting prowess is _legendary_ ," she said in a slight mocking tone. "Admittedly, he tends to exaggerate when he's excited, but I know that _I_ agree with him."

"A little biased, are you?" Jace joked.

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But I remember watching you fight in the arena the first time and came to my own conclusion as to why the people praised you so much. Jace, you were _amazing_." As their eyes locked, Jace could see genuine pride shining in her eyes, and it touched him deeply. It was quite the contradiction considering how the both of them actually loathed the games, if not for the nature of its violence and bloodshed, then for its cruel and inhuman representation of how the powerful manipulated the weak.

But they also understood how significant Jace's experiences as a gladiator were in molding him into the man he was today. He was thrown into an abhorrent situation, but he made the best out of it. He _lived_ through it. Yes, he detested that he had to kill, and would forever carry with him the burden of having blood on his hands, but that was just it: the fact that he still carried a conscience set him apart from ruthless killers like Valentine Morgenstern himself. And _that_ , in Clary's eyes, made Jace the consummate warrior.

"Even if the crowd were to only know you as Shadowhunter," Clary continued, "I've no doubt at all whose side they would be on. If there's one thing that I know about my people, it's that they can be incredibly passionate about the games. They would riot before they'd allow my father to kill off their favorite gladiator."

Jace smirked, apparently agreeing with Clary's point. "It would be amusing to see how Valentine handles a riot against tens of thousands—no, make that _hundreds_ of thousands of people. Who knew a gladiator could hold so much power over a king? You're absolutely right, Clary. I _am_ awe-inspiring."

Clary rolled her eyes. "I don't recall ever uttering the words 'awe-inspiring' when describing you, my dear, conceited husband."

"Amazing. Awe-inspiring… Same thing."

"Conceited. Arrogant. Hubristic. Pompous. Overbearing," Clary listed without missing a beat. "It never ceases to amaze me that so many adjectives can be used to describe you."

"O ye, of such impudence."

Clary said nothing, only pulled him towards her for a kiss. And as they often did, the young, happily married couple lost themselves in each other—

Until three loud raps on the door interrupted them.

" _What now_ ," Jace muttered exasperatedly as they extricated themselves from their embrace. His head dropped back against the pillows, his chin angled towards the ceiling. After several deep breaths, he begrudgingly turned his gaze to the door. "Who, in their right minds, would come to our chambers at this late hour? Honestly, do they not value sleep?" He lamented.

"Probably not." Clary kissed him chastely on the cheek before rising from the bed. "And that's probably Jon," she said as she pulled on her dressing gown—a thicker one, this time. "You did say that my brother would be coming by after his meeting to talk to you," she reminded him.

The knocking on the door sounded again, more impatiently this time.

Jace groaned. "Your brother has the absolute worst timing ever," he said, rubbing his hands over his face with clear vexation.

Clary couldn't repress her giggles when he flashed her a pouty expression. "Even so, you know that he won't go away until we let him in. Now, my love, off to the bathroom with you," she said, waving him off. "While I may appreciate the view, I am not so certain that my brother would be as receptive to your state of undress. Besides…you stink."

Jace scrunched his nose at the latter comment before sniffing himself. "I do not," he protested, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

Clary grinned. "Fine, you don't. But you still need a bath—a quick and preferably _cold_ one. Go on," she shooed him. "And don't come out of the bathroom until you're _fully_ clothed. I don't need to remind you how my brother overreacted the last time you appeared without a shirt."

Jace sighed in frustration but did as he was told by his wife. Yes, he knew only too well how Jonathan could be at times. Granted, his brother-in-law was smart, respectable and admittedly even _lovable_ , but he was, for the most part, an overprotective and complete drama queen.

"Tell him that he should learn to control his imagination then." He couldn't resist grumbling to his wife before he swung the bathroom door shut behind him.

* * *

Once her husband was out of sight, Clary smoothed down her hair, hoping not to get another lecture or teasing from her brother about Jace. She paused momentarily, pressing her head against the door as the familiar twinge of sadness and worry seized her. As was her primary fear, she couldn't help but wonder how life would be like if Jace failed to bring an end to her father's tyranny. Was she ready to become a widow at age sixteen?

Quickly shoving the depressing thoughts from the forefront of her mind, Clary placed her hand on the doorknob, checking herself once more to make sure that she was modest. With a deep breath, she twisted the doorknob and opened the door, a sharp gasp escaping her when the person standing on the other side of the door was revealed to her.

Though he towered above her at just the correct build, his coloring was all wrong. He didn't have white-blond hair, or emerald green eyes that matched her own.

His hair was _black_ , and his eyes appeared to be several shades even darker.

No, this wasn't her brother.

This was _Sebastian_. And he was staring at her with a lust-filled, predatory look in his eyes.

"Clarissa," he purred seductively, causing Clary to snap out of her stunned state.

"Sebastian," she returned in a venomous tone, belying the shock and fear that had stirred from within her. "It's late. You shouldn't be here. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to return to my sleep," she said icily before attempting to close the door shut on him.

Unfortunately, Sebastian moved fast, wedging his foot in between the crack in the doorway. "Now, now, Clarissa. That was really rude," he said in a calm yet calculative tone. "Why don't you invite me in, so we can practice for our wedding night?" As soon as he'd said those malicious words, he pushed Clary out of the way then invited himself into the room.

The princess barely even had time to react when he reached for the lock and set it in place, leaving her ensnared like a prey. When he saw that she was only wearing a robe, he smirked in self-satisfaction, as if he were congratulating himself for catching her at a _convenient_ moment.

"Why, Clarissa dear, you're even dressed for the occasion! Now if that isn't a request for my company, then I don't know what is. Come, Clarissa. I can show you the many ways that I can pleasure you," Sebastian whispered huskily against her ear.

"Get out," Clary snapped, both resentful and disgusted by his lurid overtures.

No sooner did he place his hands on her waist, she instinctively shoved him away from her, already contemplating the long bath she was going to have to take in order to wash away the grime of his touch. Regrettably, however, her act of self-defense only served to convert his lustful passion into cold, unadulterated rage. Within an instant, his expression had turned livid and his pupils dilated to the point that made him look almost inhuman.

In a hasty, knee-jerk reaction, Clary retreated, only to curse herself seconds later when her back hit a wall. Her green eyes widened as her mind simultaneously screamed, _Dead end. Trapped. Predator approaching. Too close, too close! HELP!_

"Bad mistake, little mouse," Sebastian purred dangerously. He cocked his head to the side, seemingly an amused spectator of her predicament. "Pity, your bravado lasted only so long."

" _Stay back_ ," Clary told him—no, _begged_ him in a shaky voice.

"I hardly think you're in the position to be making orders, _Princess_. Stay. Still."

"J—" Clary froze just as her husband's name was on the very tip of her tongue. As dire as the situation was, Clary was still rational enough to think about the consequences of her exposing her husband. She could very well be putting them in greater jeopardy than she already was in now—and she _couldn't_ do that. Jace needed to stay safe.

Biting her tongue, Clary forced herself to stay silent. Her present situation demanded that she get rid of Sebastian without drawing Jace out… But _how_? She was at a great physical disadvantage, the man being bigger and much stronger than her.

 _Think!_

Too soon, Sebastian's body was pressed against hers, his hot breaths blowing against her skin, making her cringe. "Mmmm, you smell absolutely _delectable_ —" His hand brushed her cheek, his touch deceptively tender as it reeked of vindictive intent. Goosebumps rose on Clary's skin. "Your skin is so soft," he remarked, the compliment sounding suspiciously like a snarl. "Yes, I'm going to enjoy this…"

Clary choked on her own sob. " _Stop—_ "

"Stop what?" Sebastian's hand shot out, grabbing her chin. Her breathing quickened as the last vestiges of her ability to think was robbed from her, replaced entirely with panic and fear. " _You_ stop being such a _damned_ _tease_. I am your fiancé—I've every _bloody_ right over you! You are mine, hear me? _MINE_." He let her go then, only to grip both of her wrists tightly in one hand and pinning them above her head. " _You_ might as well enjoy this, Clarissa. Because this will only be the first of what's to come for you when we get married."

He licked his way down her cheek before moving to her neck, biting on her skin to mark her. His other hand began touching the bare skin underneath her robe, dangerously inching up her thigh. Clary's breath hitched, and without warning, Sebastian slammed his mouth against hers, his slick tongue roughly forcing its way into her mouth.

Unable to take it anymore, she bit down hard on his tongue, revulsion instantly filling her when she tasted his foul blood in her mouth. He jerked his head away from her with a feral-sounding growl, then slapped her hard across the cheek.

The force of his assault sent Clary tumbling to the floor in a helpless heap, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. In the midst of her fall, her robe had ridden up, exposing more skin than she ever wanted to reveal in front of another man who wasn't Jace.

As Sebastian's black eyes burned holes into her, a mixture of rage and unadulterated, vengeful lust, Clary felt _dirty_. Everything about it was wrong. Sebastian wasn't supposed to be here. She was never supposed to be in this situation. How was she supposed to escape?

When he pounced, Clary reacted on instinct.

She screamed.

* * *

Jace had just been pulling his tunic over his head when he heard his wife's loud distressed scream shatter the still air, the door separating them doing nothing to muffle the sound. His heart nearly lurched out of his chest at the horrifying sound, but before his mind could speculate, his body reacted first. He knew that he had to act—and act fast.

Within seconds, he had violently thrown open the bathroom door, leaving a nasty dent on the wall in his wake. The image that greeted him—of Sebastian straddling an almost naked Clary, about to _rape_ her—had his golden eyes widening and his blood boiling with abject outrage.

 _No, no, no, no, NO!_

Jace had watched this scene before—eight years ago, with his mother being pinned in the exact same position by Valentine. He wasn't going to stand around and watch this time as Sebastian raped _his_ _wife_. He wasn't going to let history repeat itself.

Faster than he had ever moved before, he lunged at Sebastian and knocked him off of Clary, a wild and dangerous look burning in his golden eyes. He didn't wait for Sebastian to make the next move, and instead, threw several solid punches to his face in rapid succession.

His fists were brutal—punishing, unforgiving, unrelenting—as he was possessed by an all-consuming ire. The punches weren't meant to just subdue the enemy before him, but to _purge_ him of his demons: the demons that Valentine had imprinted on him. Five powerful punches for Sebastian's _attempted_ assault on Clary. Another flurry of punches for Valentine's _successful_ assault on his mother. His knuckles bled, but he didn't register the pain. He just kept going, and going, and going. For a while, it seemed as if Jace would retain the upper hand…

…until Sebastian started to _fight back_.

Using whatever strength he had left in his body, the young king flipped them around until he was on top of Jace, and then his own fists started to hammer down on the gladiator. Jace raised his arms to shield his face from the attack, but the other man was proving to be relentless. He acted as if he hadn't taken a _single_ hit—or perhaps it was the adrenaline finally kicking in for him. Either way, Jace was trapped with no other option but to wait it out.

But luck, it seemed, was favoring Jace as his wife came to his rescue, wielding and swinging a heavy brass candelabra. A loud thud and a pained groan from his enemy gave him the reprieve he needed to release his defensive stance, and he followed through with a swift and well-aimed knee to Sebastian's groin. Cue another miserable grunt from the injured runt of king, then he fell over to the ground, both hands clutching his bruised parts.

When Jace met Clary's eyes, he gave his wife a nod of thanks and flashed her a quick smirk to convey his pride in her. She responded to by dropping the bloodstained candelabra to the ground, both hands shaking as if she couldn't believe what she had done. There would be time for a proper conversation about her actions later, but for now, they needed to leave. Someone would have heard the commotion from his scuffle with Sebastian—or more than likely, Clary screaming bloody murder earlier—which meant that the palace guards won't be far behind.

"Clary, go get dressed! NOW!" Jace ordered her before returning his attention to Sebastian. He didn't need to look at his wife to know that she had obeyed him; she knew the extreme urgency of their situation.

The other man's eyes were squeezed shut as he laid incapacitated on the ground. " _What the hell are_ you _doing here?" He_ heard Sebastian groan.

Without hesitating, Jace landed a harsh kick to the latter's stomach, satisfied when he heard him let out a pained shout. "You're hardly in the position to be asking questions, so stay down and shut the hell up," Jace snarled. "And just so we're clear: don't you _ever_ lay your hands on my wife ever again, you rotten piece of filth." He punctuated his statement with a powerful punt to Sebastian's skull, effectively knocking him out cold.

"Jace, we need to go," Clary said gravely as the shouts of the palace guards resounded from the hallway outside.

Jace immediately sobered from his livid haze and moved towards his wife. "All right, Clary, let's move," he replied, gripping her hand tightly in his as he led them towards the fireplace. He twisted the lever, exposing the secret door before ushering Clary to crawl in first. She did so without protest, and he hurriedly scrambled in after her.

As soon as the secret door fell closed behind them, Jace heard the splintering sound of their bedroom door being broken down, and the boisterous noise of guards flooding into the chambers. Not wanting to wait around and listen to them plan their next course of action, he pulled Clary along with him, urging her to keep going. They weren't much further away from the entrance to her chambers, so the sounds of her father's men still reached them loud and clear—as if they were directly behind them. That gave him all the motivation he needed to run faster.

"Jace, I can't see!" She whimpered as she yanked his hand back, trying to stop him.

Jace cursed loudly, realizing too late that in their haste to escape, he had forgotten to grab the oil lamp. It was dark, almost pitch-black the further they delved into the musty-smelling tunnels—but they couldn't turn back now. If they stayed put, they would risk the guards discovering the secret passages, and if that happened, they would be cornered and captured. But if they ran, he could at least try to get Clary to safety. That was his main priority. There was simply no other choice: they had to rely on his memory of the tunnels to guide them to the exit in the stables.

"We can't stop now, Clary. I know the way out!" He silently prayed that he was right. _Oh God, show me the way out of here. Guide my feet to a safe place!_

They seemed to be making good progress when Clary began to noticeably slow down, her hand worryingly growing limp in his grip. She was breathing erratically, her breaths coming out in rapid puffs and sharp gasps—like she was having a panic attack. Knowing that he had better deal with her condition before it spiraled out of control, Jace forced them both to a stop.

Where they stood, there was a large enough crack in one of the walls, allowing a stream of moonlight to filter though the darkness and provide them with an infinitesimal amount of light. He cupped her cheeks and demanded her to look at him. She was hyperventilating, her eyes barely focused as her body was wracked with violent shivers.

"Hey, hey… Clary, sweetheart…look at me. Look into my eyes, honey," he coaxed her, and slowly, her green eyes came into focus, meeting his gold ones. "Now, focus on my breathing. Don't think about anything else; just breathe with me," he continued in a gentle voice.

He watched as she slowly regained her composure, her breathing returning to normal. Relieved, he gave her a reassuring smile and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "Good girl," he murmured. "Now, listen to me, Clary. We don't have much time. We need to keep going. I need you to stay strong for me. Can you do that?" He asked her in an encouraging but urgent tone.

"Yes," she managed in a strong voice despite how much she was falling apart on the inside.

"Okay, let's go. Double-time," he said, pulling her hand as they broke into another run.

As if his prayers had been heard—and answered—Jace managed to navigate the rest of the passageways easily enough. Before long, he discovered the familiar lever guarding the exit, and breathed a silent thanks when the trapdoor slid open to reveal the stables.

Peeking his head aboveground to make sure that the coast was clear, he hoisted himself up before helping Clary out. This time, he silently thanked his father for having the foresight to build the trapdoor to the passageways directly at Wayfarer's stall. As if sensing the danger they were in, his faithful steed greeted them with an urgent neigh.

"Yes, I know, buddy. They're after us," Jace said as he geared Wayfarer up with practiced dexterity. He was barely finished with the straps when his acute hearing picked up the sound of approaching company, none of whom were friendlies. Clary heard them, too.

"Jace—"

"Up you go, Clary."

Jace mounted Wayfarer after Clary, then grabbed the reins. Only after making sure that his wife had her arms wrapped securely around him did he kick the horse into gear. " _Hyah_!"

Putting on an extra burst of speed, Wayfarer galloped out of the stables, just as Valentine's guards made their presence known, their angry shouts and heavy-sounding footsteps trailing behind the fleeing couple.

"STOP! STOP IN THE NAME OF THE KING!"

They didn't stop. Instead, they rode hard and fast, racing straight into the cavernous depths of the Forbidden Forest. Familiar cedar trees darkened by mist greeted them, and Jace tightened his grip on the reins, urging Wayfarer to run faster, _faster_ , away from the chaos.

"Hold on tight, Clary!" He yelled over the cacophony of rushing wind, beating hooves and yelling men in the distance. "Hyah, hyah!"

Soon, he saw the clearing, and the unmistakable tree that they so often passed through before entering the meadow. There was no slowing down, no stopping this time; Jace led Wayfarer charging straight towards the archway in the tree. He held his breath as they burst into the meadow, the light of the fireflies greeting them at their unceremonious entrance.

Bringing Wayfarer to a standstill, Jace was about to heave a sigh of relief when all of sudden, the sounds of shouting men and stamping hooves returned, and seconds later, Valentine's entourage of men appeared in the meadow.

Swearing loudly, he dug his heels into the stirrup and nudged Wayfarer onward again—away, as far away as remotely possible from the guards as they began unsheathing their swords and brandishing them in the air, the light cast by the shiny metal illuminating the ferocious scowls on their faces. To the gladiator's peaked distress, the meadow was flat and endless. No mountains, valleys, or ridges loomed ahead; it was nothing but grass and flora covering the infinite distance. Where could they possibly be running to? Where would they even hide?

When the hairs on the back of his neck stood, Jace had a jarring flash of a premonition—an _omen_. Just as it had been for him and his mother eight years ago, there would be no escape for him and Clary tonight. Even without chancing a look behind him, he could tell that the pursuing party was steadily gaining speed on them, the distance between them lessening with every breath he took. Still, he willed his gut to be wrong. He wanted so badly to be wrong.

The thing that happened next was so unexpected that Jace found himself being literally thrown off his horse. Just when Clary buried her face into his back, Wayfarer gave a violent jerk, sending them hurtling forward, flying, and then crashing. Fortunately, the reflexes he had honed during his extensive gladiator training had taught him to relax his muscles seconds before colliding into the ground, allowing his body to absorb the maximum impact of his landing. He recovered quickly after that, rolling to his feet and practically dragging Clary up with him.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have paused to ask his wife if she was okay, but they didn't have the time. Jace turned to Wayfarer—their only hope for an escape—desperately, only for that ray of hope to shrivel away and die.

No amount of pleading and praying could turn the situation around now, not with Wayfarer lying flat on his back and his legs kicking wildly in the air. No matter how much the horse thrashed about, he was down for good. The metallic slings that had been released by Valentine's men, holding his front and back legs captive, made sure of that.

Hearing the sound of huffs and snorts coming from behind them, Jace turned around and instinctively pushed Clary behind him, trying in vain to shield her as her father's men dismounted from their horses and began their advance on foot. There were eight of them in total, he counted. Six wielded swords while the other two were armed with leather bullwhips of which Jace had more than adequately felt the sting of before.

Moving into his fighting stance, he willed himself to stay calm as he waited for his attackers to make their move. Sensibly, he knew that trying to hold off armed men while he was helplessly outnumbered and weaponless was foolish, but he wasn't about to go down without a fight. Clary depended on him. He wasn't just the most skilled gladiator of his generation, but he was also her husband. He needed to at least _try_.

"Clary, listen to me," he spoke to her in a hushed but urgent tone. "I'm going to try to hold them off for as long as I can—and I want you to _run_."

Her sharp intake of breath conveyed her dissent even before she voiced it. "NO!"

" _Clarissa—_ "

"I'm not leaving you behind, Jace!" She hissed angrily. "They'll kill you!"

He shoved her back, not meaning to be rough but desperate for her to understand. "We don't have time to argue. Listen to me—"

When the man closest to him started forward, Jace broke off, just in time to avoid his swinging blade. He caught the man's wrist, twisted it with as much pressure he could, and forced him to release the sword. The man yelled and swiped a punch to Jace's jaw, catching him off guard. But his muscle memory did him credit as he swiftly retaliated with his own punch.

"Clary, run!" He yelled at her from over his shoulder. Dodging the second punch by a mere hair's breadth, he kneed the man in the stomach, causing him to double over. The minor victory scarcely left any room for celebration as the rest of the guards began to simultaneously converge on him, one of them rushing past him and heading straight for Clary.

"No! Let me go!" She yelled, struggling against the much bigger and powerfully built man.

Jace swore loudly, pissed out of his own mind. He glanced over at Clary, who was squirming furiously against the guard's hold, and fumed. Why couldn't she have listened to him? Why couldn't she have had a sense of self-preservation and ran to save herself? Why?

The feeling of the sharp tip of a blade pressed against his throat, just barely nicking his Adam's apple, had Jace pulled from his distracted thoughts. He turned his irate golden eyes on his new opponent, fear a foreign concept in his mind. His next move wasn't premeditated—

With a malicious grin, he jerked his head backwards and sent his spittle flying into the man's face. Satisfaction swelled in him, though it was only short-lived. Outraged by Jace's insurbodinate display, the man was quick to reciprocate: with an outraged growl and an _iron-clad fist_. Pain blossomed in Jace's face as he fell to the ground, the sights and sounds around him fading—

 _He_ was fading.

In the midst of his disorientation, he briefly registered Clary's voice yelling his name, but even then, she sounded far away and muffled. And his head…oh, his head was throbbing. Everything in his vision was swimming out of focus, blurring into incoherent shapes and colors… Nothing made sense anymore.

It didn't take long for the darkness to claim him.

* * *

 _ **A/N: And so it begins... Clary and Jace just can't seem to catch a break long enough for things actually to go their way, huh?**_

 _ **We're nearing the climax of the story, guys, so do let me know your thoughts as we approach the inevitable showdown between Jace, Valentine, and yes, Sebastian, too.**_

 _ **Old readers, from here on out, I didn't change things much besides adding in extra details and cleaning up my sentence structures. So you can take that to mean that the string of unfortunate things that happened the first time round will still happen this time. Without giving away any spoilers to readers who are reading this story for the first time, that's a forewarning that you should brace yourself for some pretty heart-wrenching stuff ahead. And possibly some tissues. I'll cue you when you'll need those. Lol, don't kill me, guys.**_

 _ **Until the next update, please review!**_

 ** _p.s. If you're interested in reading more Clace stories, do check out my one-shots/short stories of Clace in a modern AU. They're mostly fluff, with a range of heartfelt angst and some humor as well. So feel free to browse through my Author's Profile for these stories and leave me your feedback on them too :)_**

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	20. Chapter 19: The Kings Have Spoken

_**Author's Note: Yes, finally an update. Thank you for all who have reviewed thus far. Special shoutout for AFourAddict who has been marathon-reading Redemption and leaving reviews at almost every chapter. I truly appreciate it :)**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 19: THE KINGS HAVE SPOKEN**

 **December 25, 508 _(part II)_**

A vicious slap of cold water against his face dragged Jace out of his pit of unconsciousness. He awoke, spluttering, his golden eyes burning with rage and abhorrence as he came face-to-face with his long-time enemy. Ever the remorseless fiend, the Morgenstern king was seated upon the throne that had once belonged to Stephen Herondale, looking quite the same as when Jace had seen him last. Barely a streak of gray was visible in his white-blond hair, nor was there a wrinkle on his sharp, angular face. In fact, he didn't look past the age of forty.

Jace loathed the sight of the man. He loathed the seemingly permanent smirk he always wore on his face just to taunt and goad him—like he was doing now. He _loathed_ him with every beat of his living heart.

Baring his teeth in a feral scowl, he let out a savage, animal-like snarl. Memories of what happened eight years ago pulsed through his mind like a surge of déjà vu, and if it weren't for the sole fact that he was chained up— _again_ —he would have launched himself onto white-haired fiend and rip his pathetic head off his shoulders…and put his head up on display…just like Valentine had done to _his mother_.

"Well, well, WELL!" Valentine's thunderous voice boomed, only serving to add fuel to the soaring flames of his rage. "The spawn of Stephen and Celine Herondale, at long last, has made his grand return to Idris!" He raised his arms mockingly as he stood up from his seat and stalked towards Jace, slow and calculative like a predator. "I hear you've been busy, boy. Making a name for yourself as a gladiator…" He knelt down beside Jace's chained form with a dark chuckle, his tone exactly as smug and superior as the day he had defeated the Herondales. " _Shadowhunter_ , so they call you. They say you move so quick, you glide like the shadows! The youngest and yet, already one of the most feared gladiators known to all!"

Jace tried not to flinch when Valentine's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the back of his head, gripping his hair with such feral intensity that pain radiated through his scalp. Their faces were close to each other now, noses grazing, eyes barely an inch apart. It was often said that the eyes were the windows to one's soul, and as Jace stared into Valentine's depthless black orbs, he understood the reason for the metaphor. It was as clear as staring past a window; Valentine's soul was black and tarnished with deep-seated malice.

The blasphemous words he continued to spew from his mouth only confirmed it: "I take it you've been enjoying the life I've bestowed on you, spilling the blood of your lowbred kind in the arena. Oh, do tell. Bloodlust, it's such…" He trailed off, a sick look in his eyes. "…a _powerful_ feeling, isn't it? The inexplicable euphoria it gives you when you take another's life into your own hands…as if you were God Himself passing on judgment unto His sinners."

"Valentine," Jace returned in a cold voice. "So nice to see you again after all these years. Pray tell, how has the life of a king been treating you? Had your fun stealing from the people to fund your wicked games? Or better yet, had your fun collecting people's heads?" He spat, wasting no time at all with pleasantries. He paused thoughtfully, before sneering in a low and resentful tone, "Or is it just my mother's?"

Valentine's eyes darkened and his smirk instantly fell from his lips, replaced by an ugly scowl. "Careful what you say, _boy_. I can easily end your life within a matter of seconds," he hissed venomously, all pretences of niceties gone.

Jace responded to the fiend's threat with a dark sarcastic smile. "Oh, I'm absolutely _terrified_. In fact, I think I'm seconds away from wetting myself and begging you for clemency." Lowering his voice, he continued, "Listen to me, Valentine. I made a promise to you eight years ago…a promise to end _you_. And for as long as there is still breath left in my body, I intend to deliver on my word. You won't escape justice this time."

At Jace's declaration, Valentine bellowed with heavy laughter. "My dear boy, you haven't changed one bit. All bark and no bite! Look at you—" He gestured to him whilst trying to stifle a guffaw. "You're all chained up, like the _dog_ that you are. How do you suppose you are going to carry out your little threat to kill me? Please! Amuse me!"

"Face me," Jace said simply.

"What was that?" He raised an amused eyebrow, still smirking infuriatingly.

"You heard me, _you filthy coward_ ," Jace snarled, anger radiating from his veins like invisible streams of heavenly fire. "Release me from these chains and face me like a real man! Face me in the arena! Or are you going to be that sniveling, little coward and hide behind your army? Behind your gladiators? You claim that you love the games, so face me! Give the people the fight they want to see!" He shouted furiously.

Maddeningly impervious to his tirade, Valentine tilted his head to the side and had the gall to look amused. "And why should I listen to you?" He drawled his words out lazily, his tone giving away nothing but a heinous mirth. He brought his face closer to Jace's, his breath blowing hotly against the gladiator's face as he spoke. "Let us be _frank_ here. The people don't even know you exist. As far as they're concerned, the Herondale son perished along with his parents the night I conquered Idris. What sort of conviction could you possibly offer to them? They're more likely to believe that you're mad, _delusional_ , claiming to have ties with a dead king. Tell me, what good would your word be against mine?" Thinking that he had had the final word, he stepped away from the gladiator before sprawling himself nonchalantly on the throne.

To Jace's credit, he didn't appear fazed in the least. He had expected this; men like Valentine always believed that they were invincible just because they had tasted a small portion of power. If only they knew just how easily that power could be stripped away from them. God was just, after all. In the end, all men would fall, even kings and their prideful legacies.

"That's where you're wrong," Jace said in a measured tone. He met Valentine's gaze head-on, his golden orbs shooting flames of molten lava. " _One look._ One look at me, and the people will know that I am who I say I am. Just like how your son bears an uncanny resemblance to you, I too resemble my father…and that is something you cannot shield from their eyes…"

Valentine's stance instantly changed, his posture growing more tense and rigid, his hands unconsciously curling into fists as he glared, somewhat uneasily, at Jace. The latter smirked, knowing that he had most probably struck a nerve.

"You seem to forget one thing, Valentine," Jace said. "Idris thrived under my father's rule. My father gained the loyalty and the love of the people. It was under your rule that they are slowly perishing." He licked his lips, confidence growing with each word. "As far as I'm concerned, the only reason you've managed to contain them after all these years is because you used fear to control them. But _hope_ … Hope is stronger, more powerful than any amount of fear you can only hope to instil in them. And I will be the one to give my people hope. I will be the one to restore Idris to its former glory. And I will do it by _executing_ you in front of them."

Valentine inhaled sharply and was about to retaliate with his own barbed reply when a familiar voice interrupted them, calling out Jace's name.

On instinct, he turned his head in the direction of Clary's voice, the hardness in his golden eyes softening as they sought her emerald green ones. He didn't know where she had been during his conversation with Valentine, but now that he was aware of her, all he could see—and care about—was her. His Clary. His _wife_.

As she ran towards him, he quickly scanned her for physical injuries—she didn't look like she had any, for which he was grateful—but she looked distressed, her face streaked with both dirt and tears. When she was finally close enough, she tackled him to the ground and wrapped her arms around him in a vice-grip, murmuring his name over and over again in a frantic chant.

Jace inhaled her scent deeply as he buried his face into her red hair, the familiar smell of strawberries and vanilla temporarily quelling the blood-boiling hatred in his heart. For a moment, he wished that his hands were unshackled, so that he could pull Clary into his arms and shield her from her father. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands through her fiery-red hair and soothe her, to reassure her that everything would be all right.

When Clary pulled away from their embrace, she cupped the sides of his jaw in between her small hands, holding him with a feather-light gentleness. Judging from the worried frown on her face, he could tell that she was the one examining him for injuries this time.

"Oh, Jace…you're bleeding," she stammered as her violently shaking hand reached to stroke his cheek. Now that Jace paid closer attention to his wife, he realized that her entire body was shaking, her eyes a clear reflection of the fear she felt on the inside.

"Shh…I'm fine, sweetheart. It's okay. We're going to be okay," he tried reassuring her. Jace raised his chained hands to stroke her cheek…but before his fingertips could graze her skin, Clary was suddenly and violently ripped away from him—

 _By Valentine._

He watched in horror as her father literally dragged her away from him by the hair, paying no heed at all to her pained screams or her desperate struggles to free herself from his grasp.

"Jace!" Clary screamed as her hands flailed and clawed against the air.

"Let her go!" Jace yelled furiously as he, too, writhed about on the floor, willing himself to be free of those inhibitive restraints. "Let her go, Valentine!"

Unfazed by the gladiator's angry yells of protest, Valentine ripped his leather belt from his waist and began to mercilessly whip his daughter over and over again, the cracking sounds of the belt reverberating through the room like an earthquake. Clary continued to scream and plead with her father to cease his assault, but her cries fell on deaf, uncaring ears.

"VALENTINE, STOP!" Jace yelled lividly. "GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF OF MY WIFE!"

That finally did it. As soon as the words left Jace's mouth, Valentine dropped his belt and his head whipped around dangerously to face Jace.

"Your wife? YOUR WIFE?" He spat out in outrageous disbelief before expelling a bitter laugh. "Boy, it seems that you have grown to have an absurd imagination! Clarissa isn't your wife! She will never be married to a worthless scoundrel like you! _I forbid it!_ " His black eyes widened, morphing into a crazed glare.

Jace laughed mirthlessly in turn. "It's amusing how you think your opinions even matter under such circumstances." In an even more sarcastic tone, he added, "Our apologies, Daddy dearest, but it seems that it must have slipped our minds to invite you to our wedding. But, oh, if you insist on having a public celebration of our matrimony, I'm sure that Clary and I would be more than happy to consider it!"

Valentine growled and yanked Clary's head back sharply by her hair. "Clarissa Adele Morgenstern, what is the meaning of all this?" He bellowed, shaking her once. "SPEAK!"

To his surprise—and Jace's—Clary didn't flinch from his heated glare. "You heard him. Let my husband and I go, you _monster_ ," she snarled, her eyes shining with cold, angry tears.

Valentine turned a dark red with outrage, and without warning, he roughly shoved his daughter away from him, as if she weighed nothing more than a rag-doll. Clary cried out in pain as her body crashed against the floor, the impact hard enough to jar her small frame and knock the air out of her. She curled into herself defensively then clutched her throbbing head shakily. When she pulled her hand away, she found it smeared with thick crimson.

"Clary!" Jace called out as he dragged himself over to his wife. It took a great amount of effort considering he was still very much chained up, but he didn't care, not even when the friction caused the metal to bite into his skin. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he gently pulled Clary's head onto his lap. "Clary?" He said in a soft, worried tone.

The redheaded princess turned her head towards her husband and smiled weakly at him. "I'm fine, love. Don't worry about me," she said, her voice a mere whisper as she cupped his cheek.

Jace turned his head, and kissed her palm softly. "I love you," he murmured breathlessly against her palm, closing his eyes in partial relief.

"I love—"

Clary's reply was cut short by Valentine's slow, mocking applause. The couple turned their heads in the direction of the bitter king, who was watching them with a contemptuous smile.

"Just look at this romantic and touching scene! My own _daughter_ , consorting with the enemy…how absolutely _precious_ ," he sneered, narrowing his eyes at them in clear disdain. "How alike your mother you are, Clarissa. A traitor! PLOTTING AGAINST YOUR OWN FATHER!"

"YOU DON'T DESERVE TO CALL YOURSELF A FATHER!" Clary yelled back, her voice surprisingly strong, not carrying even a slight hint of tremor despite the heavy tears raining down her face. "A father is supposed to love and protect his children. _You?_ You've done nothing but shoot me down and hurt me. You've lost the right to call yourself my father the moment you ended my mother's life!" She shouted, hurt and rage clearly showing on her face as she finally— _finally_ —uttered the words that had been building inside of her head for a long time.

Valentine was stunned into momentary silence, just barely able to wrap his head around the fact that his _weakling_ daughter, whom he had spent her entire life manipulating, had actually dared to stand up to him; had actually dared to challenge him with her _mother's death_.

"I know all your dirty little secrets, Valentine, and I'm not going to just sit by and watch you carry out your vile, wretched plans anymore. I won't be used as a pawn in your stupid little games—and neither will anyone else. _You're done_ ," the princess finished, her green eyes bright with determination and her chest heaving rapidly with angry breaths.

Silence followed before Valentine finally barked out a cold, wicked laughter, sending chills down Clary and Jace's spines just from listening to it. It had sounded so vile, like the scratching of nails against polished wood.

"I never thought I'd live to see this day. The _dog_ and the _bitch_ uniting to take me down…" His black eyes bore into his daughter's green ones, but like she had just moments ago, she didn't waver from them. "I always knew that you would disappoint me one day, Clarissa. And it was against my better lack of judgment that I thought I could save you from yourself. But now, you leave me with no choice. You shall face the gallows, along with your _beloved husband_ ," he spat out the words in an acidic tone.

"NO!" A stern voice thundered, rebuffing Valentine's decision.

In simultaneous fashion, all heads turned towards the source of the interruption. Clary and Jace had expected it to be Clary's brother, Jon, but were surprised instead when they found it to be _Sebastian_. His face was decorated with several cuts and bruises that shone purple against his pale skin, and his nose was hinted with a crust of dried blood—all a result of Jace's earlier assault in the bedroom. But none of that mattered in the face of his current opposition to Valentine's verdict, something that baffled all of them seeing as he was supposed to be on the latter's side. Jace, for one, couldn't believe that Sebastian was defending him and Clary; his actions had proven that he was just as depraved as Valentine. So what was he really up to?

Seeing the need to assert his authority, Valentine was the first to break the silence. "King Sebastian, I apologize but I'm afraid that I simply cannot deliver on my promise to wed you to my daughter," he said in a curt tone. "She has tainted the Morgenstern blood by marrying this _slave_ of a Herondale, therefore, the only way I can seek to rectify her mistake is by condemning her to her death. There can be _no_ other ruling."

"I am well aware of her betrayal, King Valentine. It was I, after all, who caught them together," Sebastian said with a pointed look in Clary's direction. "Even so, I object to your decision," he declared, now standing directly in front of his ally. "What will your people say when they find out that you've executed your own daughter?" The question was rhetorical, but apparently significant enough to stump Valentine into a long, thoughtful silence.

"Think it through, my Lord Valentine," Sebastian said insistently. "Clarissa isn't some secret child who spent her life hidden behind your palace walls. She is known and well-loved by her people. Make no mistake, if word gets out of her execution, they _will_ question why you had their princess killed… And then, _you_ will be forced to reveal her scandalous marriage to this slave." At that, Sebastian let out a pitiless chuckle. "Respect and fear will mean nothing then. 'Oh, if the King can't control his own daughter, if the King was blind enough to let his daughter's marriage to a gladiator go unnoticed, surely he would not suspect an uprising? We can just an easily overthrow him.' People _always_ talk, and I can assure you, Milord, that is the last thing you want. Unless of course, keeping the throne means nothing to you?"

"What do you propose then, Your Highness?" Valentine asked, his callous façade quickly crumbling at the threat of being dethroned by his own people. The prospect wasn't anything new; every monarch was likely to face the same threats to their rule. But Valentine couldn't afford an uprising or civil war on his hands. _Not now._ With Idris's economy destabilizing at a rate quicker than ever before, he would be hard-pressed to control a large-scale conflict when he could barely fund his army of mercenaries, soldiers whose loyalties swayed with the currency.

Sebastian smirked. "We shall go forward with the original plan. I will wed with Clarissa." Behind them, Clary and Jace protested fiercely but the two kings carried on as if they weren't even there. "I will take her as my wife, and we can put this farce behind us as if none of it ever happened. No one will ever have to know about her marriage to this gladiator. You have my word, as King of Alicante."

Valentine nodded, seeing no other option available to him. "And how do you suggest we dispose of _him_?" He asked, pointing a cold finger at Jace. As was the case with his traitorous daughter, Valentine no longer felt a simple execution to be a befitting sentence for his enemy's son; either a hanging or beheading was much too merciful. No, he deserved to be given _more:_ a slow and painful death, preferably peppered with an adequate serving of humiliation.

Sebastian turned to face Jace, and his lips curled into a devious smirk. His black eyes, which pupils were barely discernible from his irises, gave him an unnatural, almost animalistic look. It was so disturbingly similar to Valentine's, that Jace couldn't help but wonder if the two were related, and if so, what a perturbing revelation that would be.

"Leave that to me," Sebastian said without looking away from Jace. " _I_ will face him in the arena five days from now."

Jace, having held hope for Sebastian to make that exact statement, couldn't repress his pleased grin. "I would be more than happy to send you to hell," he replied cheerfully. Clary gave her husband a look of despair and discreetly pinched his arm, causing him to flinch a little.

Valentine, for all his enthusiasm on seeking revenge on the gladiator earlier, however, was not so pleased. He brusquely rose from his throne and tugged Sebastian to the side, momentarily forgetting that the king of Alicante was, in fact, his equal.

"You are asking for suicide," he hissed, making sure to lower his voice. "That boy is not to be underestimated," Valentine said, shaking his head a little. "I would welcome any other creative suggestions you might have, but I cannot sanction a fight between you and that slave."

Sebastian only gave him a smile. "Your concern for me is flattering, Your Highness, but I stand by my decision. There are more reasons for me doing this than you know."

"Then by all means, do tell me your reasons," Valentine urged. "Ease me of my compunctions of letting you face him. I do not want to have to answer as to why the king of Alicante was killed by a gladiator in _my_ arena. I refuse to be held responsible, especially since you do not even possess an heir to your throne," he said, his voice rough.

Not bothering to mask his annoyance at Valentine's lack of faith in his ability to kill the gladiator, Sebastian rolled his eyes before raising an index finger impatiently to silence the older king. It was insulting to consider that he was being made to answer to another person. Valentine was an inferior king in his eyes and a fool if he had ever met one; none of this would have happened if he had learned how to control his own daughter. How hard was it, really, to keep an eye on a sixteen-year-old girl?

"One; for my own personal satisfaction," Sebastian explained with a taut clench of his fist. "That gladiator has insulted me on more than one occasion. This is the only satisfactory way I find to getting my revenge and restoring my fallen pride. After all, this is a sport, and I do enjoy a good fight." He snorted, mostly to himself. "As will the people; I assure you, the Idrisians would appreciate my match with the gladiator very much… And when that happens, it'll give them something else to talk about other than their displeasure with the rising taxes," he added, unable to resist the taunt that was sure to make Valentine listen.

"Two," he continued, waving two fingers in front of him. "To teach Clarissa a lesson on her defiance." He crossed his arms over his broad chest as he eyed Valentine's daughter. Unlike their previous encounters where she appeared to be the meek victim, this time, she was openly glaring at both her father and Sebastian. But predictably, her discomfort won out in a matter of seconds and she looked away from Sebastian's gaze, causing him to smirk. "What better way to put her back in her place than to let her watch her own husband's death?" His chest shook as he chuckled. "It'll break her rebellious spirit, once and for all." _And once that happens, I'll finally have my way with her,_ he thought.

"Three," He turned back to Valentine and firmly clasped the older man's shoulder. "See it as I'm honoring a tribute to you. Besides," Sebastian's grin widened, "It would set a perfect example to your people and show them exactly who's in charge. Remember, my Lord Valentine, that power comes from showmanship…and in this case, a good deal of sportsmanship, too. It's not often you come by such an opportunity to kill as many birds with one stone."

Finally, Valentine's face brightened. "You do make a fair argument there," he acknowledged with an approving nod. "Very well. I will honor your proposal. In five days, I look forward to seeing this Herondale scum perish by your hand in the arena. And after, we'll have a celebratory feast and magnificent wedding for you and my daughter," he said happily.

Sebastian grinned before turning his lustful black eyes to the princess. "As long as Clarissa will finally be mine," he muttered darkly.

* * *

 **December 27, 508 ( _Part I_ )**

Jace curled in on himself, his face warping into a tight grimace as Sebastian's men continued their vicious assault on him. They had been at it for God knew how long, beating and kicking him senselessly as they had since the moment Jace had been thrown into the cell and Clary forcibly separated from him. Save for the chains and abuse that marked his time in isolation, Jace knew of nothing else: no painless sleep, no speck of food or water for sustenance.

With pain as his constant companion, Jace came to realize that Sebastian wasn't as stupid as he had thought, after all. On the contrary, the hellish two nights he had spent under the tyrant's custody had proven the Alicantean king's cunning. Even before he'd suggested facing Jace in the arena for the games, Sebastian had already formulated the perfect strategy in his conniving brain; one which prescribed him to focus his attacks on debilitating the gladiator's mental and physical will. He began by separating Jace from his wife, then locking him up in an underground cell with barely enough oxygen. After, he initiated the slow, draining process of torturing him, starving him and dehydrating him. Given any other circumstance, Jace probably could have stood a fighting chance against Sebastian's men, but they hadn't played fair from the beginning. Chaining him up was one thing, but injecting him with a paralytic drug—that was designed to keep him wide awake for their pleasure while they tormented him—was another.

Jace didn't know which was worse: the time he had been whipped into unconsciousness for standing up to Sebastian in Clary's defense, or being routinely kicked and punched by his men when his body had already endured enough punishment. Despite Sebastian's instructions to not 'break anything', Jace felt as if his insides were being mutilated…which was probably what his enemy had in mind anyway. On the day of the games, when Jace would barely be able to stand on his own two feet, Sebastian would drag him out to the arena and put on a show just to mock him before killing him in front of the thousands, in turn, staging a cold-blooded, deliberate _murder_ in the form of a fight-to-death match. That was the extent of his cruelty.

Subconsciously, Jace's thoughts wandered to Clary again, worrying, agonizing over what they had done—or were doing—to her. Were they torturing her as they were torturing him? Having witnessed firsthand the cruel treatment they had put her through, he wouldn't put it past either Sebastian or Valentine to hurt Clary. Neither of them had any respect for anyone other than themselves, so why would a young woman—a _girl_ —like Clary be treated any differently? Still, Jace clung onto hope and prayed that his wife would be safe. God knew that if anything were to happen to Clary, Jace would never be able to forgive himself.

Against his will, a strangled cry made its way out of Jace's throat as one of Sebastian's men landed a heavy, forceful blow to his back, momentarily making him choke weakly for breath. He pressed his face against the floor of the cell, his eyes and teeth clenched shut as his body trembled in agony against the continued assault. Having been sufficiently immobilized by his previous injuries, they had forgone using the drug on him this time, knowing that he would be far too weak to even attempt anything. It was only a matter of how strong his will was—how long he would be able to take it without conceding to death…

And remarkably, Jace's will remained to be _very_ strong. His enemies could do what they wanted to him, but they would never be able to break his spirit. So as long as he lived, he would keep fighting. He would hold on—he _would_.

The sound of the cell door clanging open drew the attention of Sebastian's men away from the gladiator. Ceasing their assault, they turned to greet their notorious master.

"Your Majesty," The men bowed.

"Leave us," The fiend dismissed the guards without even sparing them a glance.

There were some shuffling sounds, followed by the crunching of boots against the dirt as the guards evacuated the cells. Jace raised his head weakly when he saw Sebastian's polished boots come to a halt just inches away from his face. Straining to keep his bruised eyes open, he glared at his grinning enemy, who stood poised over him as if already celebrating his premeditated victory. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out of his hoarse throat. Instead, the gesture only caused his dried, cracked lips to bleed.

Sebastian lowered himself until he was sitting down next to Jace, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other tucked against his chest. He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy as he examined the dark and heavy bruises that now took residence amongst the deep reddish scars marring Jace's back. Those had been Sebastian's doing, too; the whiplashes he had suffered for his interference at the barracks, back before Clary even knew his name.

"Oh dear," Sebastian began in a false worried tone as his fingers lightly wandered across Jace's back. "You look terrible," he continued with the same faked concern before letting out a loud hiss, as if it physically pained him to look at Jace's bruises. " _Tell me,_ " he whispered into Jace's ear, the beginnings of malice returning to his voice. "Does it _hurt_?" His voice rose at the end, and on cue, he ground his fist against one of the larger bruises on Jace's lower back.

The gladiator winced sharply, and unable to help himself, he yelled out in pain. This only seemed to spur Sebastian on as the latter began to furiously knead his fist against his bruises, purposely adding more pressure, and inevitably, intensifying his enemy's pain.

As Jace's shouts persisted, verging on a pitiful, pleading note, Sebastian cackled, his onyx eyes gleaming with gleeful amusement. As the scene continued, another scenario flashed through the sadistic king's mind: him standing in the arena against the revered but severely weakened gladiator. All he would have to do was to trip his opponent over his own two feet, then strike him down with his sword…as if he were slaughtering a useless little lamb. _Easy._

Meanwhile, Jace's strength was quickly fading. Just seconds after his voice cracked, his screams began to dissipate, until the only sounds that were coming from him were his harsh, quick breathing. His throat felt scraped and worse for wear, and he was shaking so much from the pain. He wanted to move his limbs to push Sebastian away from him, but his muscles wouldn't react the way he wanted them to. He was too _weak_. Too _tired_. And in too much _pain_.

As abruptly as the pain flared through his body, it abated. Jace peeked through squinted eyes at his enemy, who was now reclining on his side and sneering at him. He involuntarily shivered. Rivers of sweat were saturating his entire body, making him feel chilled to the bone.

"You poor, stupid boy," Sebastian said as he yanked Jace's wet, greasy hair back in a tight fist. "I wonder what Clarissa even sees in you—"

At the mention of his wife's name, Jace's weariness dissolved, only to be replaced by pure anger. Teeth clenching, breathing shallow and eyes bloodshot, he was felt as if his blood was boiling, and rightfully so, as he glowered at Sebastian.

"I mean, I understand why _you_ would be attracted to her…she's a definite spitfire, all right…a _fine_ companion to share one's bed with, wouldn't you say?"

"Don't you _dare_ say another word," he growled in a hoarse voice. "Don't you ever talk about my wife like that. Don't you even dare touch her," he warned through heavy puffs of air.

Tilting his head to the side, Sebastian smirked. "What makes you think I haven't already bedded her?" He whispered into Jace's ear, causing the gladiator to shake with fury. "What makes you think I haven't kissed every inch of her soft, milky skin? What makes you think I haven't _ravished_ her like every other girl who deserves to be—"

Before Sebastian could finish his sentence, Jace unexpectedly drew his chained hands up to his chest and sent a hard punch to Sebastian's face, making sure to utilize the metal restraints as a weapon to maximize the impact of his blow.

Sebastian flew backwards, his back slamming against the wall. His black eyes were wide with shock at Jace's startling strength—though he quickly recovered his momentum.

With a feral snarl, he lunged forward and squeezed Jace's shoulder forcefully. Blood flowed from where Sebastian's nails were savagely digging into his skin, making Jace writhe and scream once more in agony. Black spots began to cloud his vision, growing larger and larger each time, until finally, complete darkness welcomed him.

* * *

 **December 27, 508 ( _Part II_ )**

Clary paced back and forth restlessly, dark circles marring the pale skin beneath her bloodshot green eyes. She hadn't slept a wink or eaten a bite, not since Sebastian's—or Valentine's—men had locked her up in her bedroom two nights ago.

She felt as if she were trapped in a repetitive loop, except time continued to tick by without pause, each minute reminding her that she was nowhere closer to being reunited with her husband; on the contrary, Jace was so much closer to facing his doom in the arena.

The very thought made Clary's chest clench with pain and she sank down onto the floor in a shaky, pathetic mess. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she fought to control herself from another breakdown. She knew she needed to pull herself together, to not give in to her emotions, but without Jace—without her rock—she felt as if her soul had been ripped into two.

Feeling helpless was not a foreign emotion for Clary, but this was so much worse. The possibility of what awaited her less than three days from now scared her more than she thought possible. Could she live a life without Jace? As much as tried not to depend on her husband, she knew that she couldn't be the same person without him by her side. He was her other half, the one with whom she shared her heart. If he _died_ , theoretically so would she.

Feeling the oncoming signs of an anxiety attack, Clary eyed the room frantically and grabbed Jace's pillow off the bed. She held it tightly to her chest, trying to let the lingering scent of her husband to calm her down before she could be smothered with fear. Like an instantaneous cure, the technique worked; she closed her eyes, letting her nostrils savor the familiar scent and replenish the fissures of her shattered heart with solace she so desperately craved.

When she was feeling somewhat sedated, she reached into the collar of her dress to retrieve the Herondale ring hanging from the silver chain around her neck. It was the same ring she had tried to return to Jace after they were engaged, only for him to gift it to her for safekeeping.

Before the night of their forced separation, she had kept the ring tucked away inside her drawer, afraid of being caught by her father if she wore it. But now that the truth was no longer a secret, she didn't care if Valentine saw it. She was a Herondale by marriage, and the ring was an apt representation of that.

Running her thumb across the ring's intricate engraving, she felt momentarily consoled. But just as quickly as peace washed over her, the memories came rushing in a flood: Her first meeting with Jace in the market square. Their second and third encounters in the royal stables. Jace standing up for her against Sebastian in Dumont. Jace in the gladiator cells, a bloody mess, and her taking care of him. Jace telling her his name. Jace taking her through the Forbidden Forest and to the magical meadow. Honey cakes and their first kiss. Jace opening up to her about his past and telling her that he loved her for the first time. Her finding out about Jace's true identity. Their breakup, followed by her horrifying discovery in her father's study and her mental breakdown. Then from there, it transitioned to some of the happiest moments of her life: Jace proposing to her, their wedding in the meadow, their first time together. The blissful memories swirled into one massive whirlpool, broken only by her latest memory of Jace; when he'd mouthed the words 'I love you' before he was taken from her—for quite possibly forever.

Clary let out a choked sob, when all of a sudden, a searing ache pierced her heart. She grasped at her chest, breathing heavily, her emerald green eyes wide with shock. It had been so sudden, but it didn't take long for her to realize that it couldn't have been something physiological, even though her body was screaming for nourishment.

No, if Clary knew herself as well as she believed she did, then she knew that her intuition was telling her— _warning_ her—that the pain had something to do with _Jace_.

For the first time, Clary felt not despair, but _anger_ —anger that she'd thought had faded into nothing more than dying embers reignited itself into a wild flame, ready to burn. It was as if a switch had been turned on inside of her, and she finally felt awake.

Her gaze wandered to the silver trays of food that sat piling on the floor by her door, untouched and possibly even rotten by now. She scowled at them angrily. Not a single speck of food they gave her was worth anything; none of it was worth a fraction of being with Jace. _They can take it all back to the kitchen and stuff it down their own throats for all I care,_ Clary thought, her rage building. She didn't need or want any of Sebastian's peace offerings. She would rather he lock her up in a tiny cell with Jace instead of imprisoning her in her lavish chambers.

And it was time that she let the fiend know of just that.

Empowered by her newfound resolve, Clary leaped to her feet, and with fierce determination, she pounded her fists against her bedroom door, one that had been hastily rebuilt to replace the original door the guards had broken down earlier. It wasn't merely anger towards her father or Sebastian that compelled her to action, but anger at herself as well. How could she be a self-pitying, subservient weakling when Jace had, time and time again, sacrificed himself for her?

She felt the delicate skin on her knuckles split from her ruthless pounding, but she didn't care. She continued to ram her fists against the door as she shouted for Sebastian, calling him a list of ineffable names—names she had previously never dared to utter because it was "unbecoming of a lady". She scoffed. Her father could shove all his self-righteous principles up his pretentious behind. _Principle._ She couldn't believe that she'd allowed herself to be ruled by the words of a misogynistic hypocrite who lacked all the principles of a sane human being. _No more._ Clarissa Adele Herondale, though having no intention to convert herself into a foul-mouthed and profane woman, would be _heard_.

"SEBASTIAN! Let me out of here now! LET. ME. OUT!"

Unexpectedly, the door swung open with such force that Clary found herself flying backwards and onto the floor. She cursed silently; her only regret for stubbornly refusing to eat was that she felt physically weaker than before. She probably looked like a twig now, too.

"What the hell do you want, Clarissa?" Sebastian demanded, his black eyes smouldering with white-hot anger and impatience.

As Clary stared at him, she noticed a fresh new bruise on his face. It was impossible not to notice it, considering how blatantly obvious it looked. On top of that, his nose was also slightly crooked and bloody— _again._ Uncharacteristically, Clary found herself smirking, a very Jace-like smirk as she recognized her husband's handiwork.

"What the hell is so funny?" Sebastian growled before roughly grabbing her up by the arms.

Clary winced from the amount of pressure that he was using to grip her, but she obstinately masked her pain and kept her smirk intact. "I was just admiring your pretty face, Sebastian," she said in a very innocent tone, her features—save for her smirk—as demure and incorrupt as a cherub's. "Did Jace do that to you?" She asked, boldly raising her hand to poke the bruise on his face.

Sebastian gritted his teeth in vexation at her insolent gesture, and he increased the fierce pressure of his grip on her arms, this time earning a sharp wince from the princess.

"Sebastian, let go—you're hurting me," she growled at him.

Sebastian, of course, wasn't hindered at all by her words, not even when Clary visibly grimaced from the pain. "You stupid, naïve, little _bitch_ ," he spat as his soulless black eyes bore into her shiny green ones. "Do you really think that just because I've spared you leniency, that you can step all over me? You may have gotten that from your _dear husband_ , but you won't get any of that foolishness from me. I will never treat you as anything more than what you deserve. You are nothing more than a petty, spoilt girl who will bear my name and serve me as my wife. Do you understand?" He demanded, anger coating his every word.

Under the surface of her brave façade, Clary was shaking. No amount of abusive encounters with her father could ever prepare her for the same kind of treatment from Sebastian. At least Valentine was her father. Sebastian was _no one_ was to her—what right of it was his to manhandle her like this, to try to punish her as if she were actually _his_?

Willing herself to not falter, Clary kept her silence and mustered a furious glare at the man. She knew it wasn't necessarily a smart thing to do considering she was literally within his clutches and he could probably just as easily _squeeze_ the life out of her, but she had to remind herself that she _was_ stronger than this. She was a Fairchild. A Morgenstern. And a Herondale. And what did those three share in common? _Resilience,_ she mentally answered. She would not be made into Sebastian's—or anyone else's—slave. She was her own person; she didn't answer to _them_.

Vexed by her stubborn defiance, Sebastian shook Clary harshly in his grip before he literally threw her across the room and onto her bed, where she landed directly in the center of the mattress. A loud gasp pierced her lips, the sheer impact knocking the air out of her lungs.

When she finally caught her breath, she noticed Sebastian predatorily stalking towards her, his black eyes fixated on her with a look of animalistic lust.

Quickly fumbling off the bed, Clary ran towards the vanity, her heart racing wildly in her chest. She grabbed her wooden hairbrush off the table and pointed it towards Sebastian, as if it were a deadly weapon capable of warding him off.

Sebastian chortled loudly. "Aw, isn't that just precious?" He mocked her, bending slightly at the waist as if he were speaking to a child. "Threatening me with a hairbrush! What are you going to do? Comb my hair and style it into tiny, little braids? Wouldn't that be absolutely terrifying!"

" _Keep away from me_ ," Clary snarled, fighting against the tears that were beginning to prick her eyes. "If you have any respect for yourself, you wouldn't touch me. Not while I still belong to another man," she said, her words coming out rough but firm.

Sebastian laughed again. "Respect?" He asked, echoing the word. Without seeking an invitation or her permission, he reclined himself on the Herondale's marital bed—on _Jace's side_ , Clary couldn't help but notice furiously—effectively soiling the pristine bedsheets with his boot-clad feet. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared at her with a taunting expression. "Oh, trust me, Clarissa, if it's anyone who has any ounce of understanding of the term self-respect, it's me. No one else respects me as much as I respect myself. No one—and especially not you _._ "

"No, but at least I'm not a spineless coward like you are," Clary returned in a steely voice, her lips curling into a dark grin. She knew that she was purposely egging Sebastian on, and in turn, putting herself in more danger, but there was no turning back now.

"Coward?" Sebastian questioned in a scary-calm voice. "Oh, by all means, Clarissa…do explain what you mean by that bold statement of yours…"

"You—" _I won't be intimidated by him,_ Clary thought. _He holds no power over me. He can't scare me as long as I don't let him. He is more of a coward than I am._

"I _know_ ," Clary cleared her throat while trying to gather her words coherently. "I know what you've done to Jace. I know that you've been torturing him," she said it as a mere statement of fact rather than an accusation. "I might not have seen it for myself, but I know what you've done to him. I can _feel_ it. I know that he's in serious pain right now. Probably…probably serious enough that he won't be able to even stand in the arena." A tear slipped down her cheek and she quickly swiped at it, knowing that she needed to stay strong if she wanted to deliver her punchline. "But I also know that the reason why you're doing all this, why you're torturing him on purpose is because you're _afraid_ ," she sneered.

The moment she saw the flicker in his eyes she knew that she'd crossed the line—thus far, no one she knew had ever dared to test his authority except for two others: her brother and Jace. And she would make them proud by holding her ground. She wouldn't go down without a fight.

"You're _afraid_ ," Clary said, placing extra emphasis on the word, "that if Jace were at his full potential, he would easily kill you in the arena without even batting an eye!"

Sebastian rose from the bed, and all of a sudden, he was right in front of Clary again. He grabbed her chin with bruising force, giving her no other option but to meet his eyes. "Would you like to repeat yourself, sweetheart? I'm afraid I wasn't close enough to hear you… I could've been wrong about one or two words you might have used in your sentences."

"You heard me loud and clear, Sebastian," Clary replied, keeping her voice and demeanor steady. "If you were a real man _,_ you'd give Jace a fair fight. You'd let him face you at his fullest. Because hear _this_ , Sebastian. The path that you're taking right now proves to me that you're nothing more than a yellow-bellied _coward_."

Sebastian gave a chuckle without mirth. "That's where you're wrong again, Clarissa. I. Am. Not. A. Coward," he hissed before repositioning his hand to grab her throat, choking her.

Clary gagged at the pressure around her throat, and far too quickly, unwanted desperation began to seep in. " _Then prove it to me. Give Jace a fair fight. Let me…let me look after him until the games. Please, Sebastian. I'm_ begging _you_ ," she pleaded, a fat tear rolling down her cheek as she clawed at Sebastian's callused fingers.

Finally releasing her, the black-haired king took a step backward, watching remorselessly as Clary gasped for air and gingerly rubbed the bruised skin of her neck. Folding his arms across his chest, he continued to eye her with cold scrutiny. "What's in it for me, Clarissa?" He finally asked after a pause. With anyone else, the question might have appeared to be on the grounds of innocent curiosity, but with Sebastian, it spoke volumes of his calculative and frosty nature.

Clary knew, even without him elucidating his intentions, that there would be some groveling on her part before he would ever give her due consideration. Negotiations with the devil oftentimes came with a price. This was no different. "I'll—" Clary faltered, her breaths coming out short and choppy. Burying her face into her palms, she willed herself to say her piece.

 _Oh Jace, please forgive me for what I'm about to say,_ she thought to her husband in despair.

"If-if you somehow manage to k-kill J-Jace in a fair match, I'll…" She broke off again, swallowing against the thick lump in her throat. "I'll willingly give myself to you," she managed in a single breath. "I'll n-never fight you, ever again, for as long as I live. I p-promise. _Please._ Please just give Jace a proper chance. Please let me take care of him…" By then, she was crying heavily—not only because of the weight of her promise, but also because she was desperate, more than anything, to get to her husband. If the whipping he had endured under Sebastian's hand was any indication of the latter's cruelty, she couldn't help but imagine how much worse of a condition Jace was in now.

Sebastian strode up to her and stroked her cheek, the pad of his thumbs slowly wiping away her tears. Though the act appeared gentle and innocuous, Clary wanted to recoil from him. His touch felt wrong. It made her feel dirty, impure, tainted.

"All right," Sebastian said, and immediately, Clary felt the clenching in her chest loosen significantly. Despite how foolish it was, she allowed herself to feel hopeful. " _But…_ " He dragged out the word condescendingly, "Only if you agree to _my_ terms…then, and only then, will I grant you your request."

A wave of dread filled Clary again, and she quickly responded to Sebastian's dark, all-knowing gaze with a furious shake of her head. "P-please…please don't m-make me s-sleep with you," she pleaded with him. "Anything but _that_ …"

Sebastian let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, Clarissa! How eager you must be to make such a suggestion!" He exclaimed, obviously relishing in her discomfort. "No, no. As a man of high stature and 'self-respect' as you've so eloquently put it, I will not ask such a thing from you. I am confident that there will be…ample opportunities for us to do _make sweet love_ "—Clary shuddered at those words—"after I've killed your husband. So let's just save that thought for our wedding night, shall we?"

Although she was inwardly fuming over Sebastian's nonchalant suggestion of killing Jace—and his audacity to insinuate that she would be a completely willing party to any, _if ever_ , sexual relations between them—Clary quickly nodded. For the most part, she was relieved that she wouldn't have to resign herself to committing— _God forbid!_ —adultery, but she was still apprehensive about his motives. What could he possibly want that didn't involve sex?

"What do you want, Sebastian?" She asked him quietly, trying to compose her features into a placid expression.

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her ear. "A kiss," he whispered, all malice and venom loaded into his answer.

"A k-kiss?" Clary's voice quavered as her heart hammered wildly in her chest.

"And not just any kiss," Sebastian continued with a huge smirk on his face. "I want you to kiss me like you would kiss your husband. I want you to _enjoy_ it. I want—no, I _need_ to be able to feel the same amount of love and passion radiating from you when we kiss. If not, there is no deal… Deal?" He stuck his hand out to her as an offering, and though her face turned slightly green with nausea, Clary took it in hers.

The gesture—the mere contact with Sebastian's skin against hers—sent shivers of disgust running through her body. She hastily pulled her hand away after their brief handshake, and inconspicuously wiped it against the back of her dress.

 _Oh God!_ She cried. _If I can barely tolerate shaking his hand, then how am I supposed to kiss him?_ And not just a simple peck of the lips, too, but a passionate kiss—one which she only reserved for Jace. How would she even bring herself to do it?

As Clary looked away, her breath shuddering as she prayed— _pleading_ for a miraculous divine intervention—Sebastian yanked her towards him by the hips, gripping her possessively. She let out a surprised gasp and desperately tried to retreat, but he held onto her firmly. _There's no turning back,_ his eyes warned her. Then he leaned down, his mouth hovering just inches away from hers, and a sly smirk on his handsome but cruel face.

"Pucker up, sweetheart," he whispered maliciously, and before Clary could prepare herself, he claimed her lips with his in a rough and hungry kiss.

As soon as Sebastian's lips touched hers, Clary felt the urge to shove him as far away from her as she possibly could, to throw up in his mouth even. It felt completely repulsive and revolting the way he kissed her: how he was barbarously thrusting his tongue into her mouth, trying to deep-throat her; how his fingers were digging into her hips, bruising her.

Jace would have never kissed her like this. Even when lost within the deep frenzy of passion, he would never be rough with her. He would always put her first and be considerate of her feelings—letting her set the pace. He would never push her like _this._

But despite all that, Clary pushed on with a fierce single-mindedness… and for Jace's sake, _she kissed Sebastian back._

Swallowing her bile and her pride, she moved her lips against his, their tongues tangling, battling for dominance. It disgusted her to do this, especially knowing how much Sebastian was clearly enjoying all of it, but she had _no choice_. He groaned loudly into her mouth, pulling her tighter against his body where she felt _him_ —his unmistakable arousal—pressed up against her stomach.

And that was all it took for Clary to finally push Sebastian away from her, ending the horrendous, deplorable kiss. She wiped her mouth, her tongue even, against the sleeve of her dress, tears of shame and disgrace pouring down her cheeks. Guilt engulfed her as she quickly realized what she had done. She had just cheated on Jace out of her own conscious will! And even if it were to save him, how could she ever justify breaking her oath of fidelity towards her husband? Would he be able to forgive her?

Sebastian stood, breathing heavily as he watched her, a satisfied grin on his face. "Now, Clarissa… That wasn't so hard now, was it?" He chirped. "I must say…for a tiny thing like you, I would have never expected you to be such a feisty little spitfire!"

"Jace…" Clary rasped out, not wanting to hear anymore of Sebastian's opinions on her. She was sick and tired of his games. She had given him what he wanted, so it was only fair that he held up his end of the bargain, wasn't it?

Sebastian rolled his eyes, looking annoyed by her interruption. "Yes, yes, fine _._ _Jace_ ," he grumbled furiously, his expression darkening. "I'll send for a doctor to treat your husband's injuries, and have my men to escort you to his cell as promised," he growled bitterly.

"T-thank y-you," Clary hiccupped, wiping away her tears.

She took a step forward, ready to follow Sebastian to wherever it was that Jace was being held, when the latter abruptly raised his hand to stop her.

"Ah, ah, ah! I didn't say I was done yet… Did I, Clarissa?" Sebastian enquired schemingly.

Clary's eyes widened in disbelief. What else could he possibly want from her now? "What do you want, Sebastian? Wasn't it good enough that I gave you a kiss?" She asked, weariness, anger and exasperation laced in her tone. "Wasn't it enough that I already promised to give myself to you if Jace—"

"Honestly, Clarissa, it really sickens me to hear that scum's name. So unless you want me to deliver on my end of this deal, you'll do well to shut up about him," he threatened before grabbing her wrist and yanking her towards him.

Clary's heartbeat picked up as she hesitantly raised her eyes to meet his. Grinning, Sebastian leaned down and planted a quick, unwanted peck on her lips, one which she absolutely refused to respond to. Her face twisted into a look of aversion, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth parting slightly with tremulous, shallow breaths.

"Oh my sweet, naive Clarissa, don't you see? The kiss was merely an overture, a 'warranty' if you may. No, in order for our deal to become binding, I'm going to need something more. I'm going to need…a _payment_ of sorts from you," Sebastian whispered through half-lidded eyes.

Clary turned away from him as he nudged his nose against her jaw, inhaling her. "Stop it…" Clary shoved against his chest, but heedless to her protests, Sebastian only stepped closer to her, even going as far as to brush her hair off her shoulder and resting his chin there.

She sucked in a sharp breath when she felt his lips against her ear. "What I _need_ from you is…" He trailed off, whispering the rest of his sentence into Clary's ear with a cruel grin.

A sharp gasp left Clary's mouth as she registered Sebastian's sinister words. As if the wind had been knocked out of air, she stumbled away from him, just barely able to hold herself up as her body was simultaneously racked with violent sobs. "Please, don't…"

"You brought this upon yourself, Clarissa," Sebastian replied unsympathetically. "Either you agree to this, or we can compromise by going forward with your original suggestion that you sleep with me. And I can promise you I _won't_ be gentle…"

On the verge of a panic attack, Clary started to frantically look around at everything in the room—everything except for Sebastian. Finally, her gaze settled on the fireplace. There was now an iron grille covering its entrance, so that it was impossible for her to escape through the secret passageways anymore. A steady flame was blazing in its firebox, flickering and crackling dangerously as if mocking her predicament.

She drew out a long, heavy breath, a lone tear trickling down her face. Knowing there was no way out of this, no other way to negotiate with Sebastian over Jace, she reluctantly, yet bravely, turned her head towards him, her green eyes, though teary and bloodshot, returned his gaze with a steely look.

"I'll…I'll do it."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Another cliffhanger! Muahahaha!**_

 _ **So my new readers, can you venture a guess what exactly 'it' is that Clary agreed to do? Hint: It's nothing of the sexual nature, but it still ranks on the level of cruel and barbaric. So with that said, what can 'it' be?**_

 _ **Old readers, I know you know, but I trust that none of you would give away the secret :D**_

 _ **Until next time, please review/follow/favorite the story!**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	21. Interlude: Vivid Dreams

_**A/N: Reposting for those who might have missed the update of this 'chapter' from a few days ago. This is an interlude (and I suppose something more of a filler rather than anything plot-moving), but I worked hard on it nonetheless. Hope you guys enjoy, and please spare me a minute of your time to review!**_

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **INTERLUDE: VIVID DREAMS**

 ** _In an undefined time and space…_**

The moment his consciousness broke and he blinked open his sleep-crusted eyes, Jace knew that he wasn't actually _awake_.

For one, he was standing in a place that he was fairly certain didn't exist in reality. All stark white, the place was boundless with no walls, or trees, or quite simply, anything. He looked down at his feet to discover that there was no floor there either; he was floating, and could barely feel his own weight. In short, it was the most peculiar—and _terrifying_ —experience he'd ever had in his life.

Desperate for some answers, Jace looked up, and was startled this time to find himself surrounded by a group of bloodied men, numbering at almost fifty, who each bore wounds of fatality: blood soaking their slashed necks or impaled abdomens, while their eyes appeared like dead tunnels.

Jace could feel his mouth hanging open as he gaped at the sight before him. Now he was absolutely certain that he was dreaming—no, that he was having a nightmare! And yet when he pinched himself, he could still, strangely, manage to feel the pain. Shakily, he pressed his index and middle fingers to his wrist, and to his relief but continued disconcertion, he found his pulse. It was beating erratically, but still, that was a good sign, wasn't it? Unless he was one of the _undead_ …?

Jace pulled his hand away and stood with his clenched fists hanging rigidly by his sides. No, that was preposterous! What was it with this place that was distorting his ability to reason? Oh, what in God's name was even the meaning of all this? Why had he been banished into a total white space, only to be surrounded by the visages of the men he had killed in the arena?

 _Oh yes,_ Jace thought with a mixture of surprise and self-condescension. Although he didn't know any of the men who stood before him personally, he still recognized them; he knew exactly at which point in time and where he had dueled with them and ended up defeating them. His brain had a funny little thing with memory, having long ago decided that part of its job was to torture him with his past sins, ones which he felt most strongly the pinch— _no_ , he ascertained now, a _powerful wave_ of regret. No wonder he was always walking around with a chip the size of a boulder on his shoulder; his ability to recall happy memories was so much rarer in comparison.

Jace closed his eyes, his brows furrowing as he willed the powers that be to remove the scene before him, to replace it with anything else—anything else but _them_.

With a shaky exhale of breath, he reopened his eyes, only to find that nothing had changed. On the contrary, the distance that had separated him from the other gladiators seemed that much smaller— _Had they moved, or had he?_ They were within a close enough range for him to make out the gory details of the wounds which he knew that he'd had a hand in inflicting upon them. And worse still, he could even smell their rotting flesh!

Before Jace knew it, tears were leaking past his closed eyelids as he allowed himself to truly _feel_ : the anger, the self-recriminating remorse and guilt, the despair, and even self-pity at having been put in the unjust situation that he was in. It occurred to him that he had done himself a great injustice by never quite allowing himself to think about the men whom he had killed in the name of survival—not since the first one. He should have known that he wouldn't have been able to avoid the weight of those deaths forever… There was no other way to describe the guilt and anxiety churning inside of him, besides sheer agonizing pain.

Jace wanted to believe that it wasn't his fault that he was a killer. Since his parents' deaths, his life had been a blur of decision after decision, almost all of which he rarely had a say in. He had done what he _had to_ —adapted—because it was the only way to survive.

But then… At what _cost_?

How was it fair of him to put his own life before others? To survive at the expense of another's end? If he was truly selfless and honored his principles and upbringing, he would have chosen a different path; he would have laid down his weapon and let his first kill take _his_ life instead. Sure, he would die, but certainly death wasn't as bad as the burden of being a killer himself?

Perhaps he _should_ have chosen differently, Jace reiterated. But he hadn't.

It was far too late to turn back now, he realized as he dared himself to glance upon the faces of his victims, feeling rather pathetically exposed, and bluntly, ashamed of himself. Was it possible to be both sides of the same coin? A cold and necessary killer, but also a young boy who felt too much, and yearned only to do the right thing? What was the right thing to do anyway, and who decided on which course of action ought to be the followed?

"Why am I here?" His voice finally decided to co-operate, though he was most definitely shocked to hear it sound so _young_ , as if he were no more than a ten-year-old child.

Jace looked down at himself and saw that, yes, he was indeed ten years old again, if his height and smaller hands and feet were of any indication. _Why_ he was ten years old again, he thought, was another thing to untangle and sift through.

Then, "Am I dead?"

A cold shiver raced through his spine as he considered the possibility—in hindsight, a very _likely_ possibility if he accurately recalled his last few waking moments in Sebastian's presence. Even if he still had a pulse, what else could explain the presence of these other dead people?

"Jace…" A sweet, soft voice, so familiar and so dearly _missed_ , called out to him, and he found himself spinning around so quickly that he nearly lost his balance.

There, standing just meters away from him, was his own mother, looking as achingly beautiful as the day he had lost her, save for the gold shimmer coating her translucent-like skin.

Jace's breath caught in his throat, and in a span of a millisecond, all thoughts about his gladiator company vanished into complete obscurity, replaced by one thought. One word. _Mom._

Before he could process any of his motor coordination skills, Jace took off running—at a speed that seemed impossibly fast, and yet, he thought that he couldn't be any slower.

Finally—and Jace let out a cry of relief at this—his body collided into his mother's, and he could _feel_ the comforting warmth of her embrace surrounding him, holding him tightly enough that his breath turned slightly hard, not that he actually cared. His mother—the first woman he had ever truly loved, and whose love was one of the purest he had ever felt—was there holding him. It was a blessing he'd never thought he'd have again.

"Mom," he choked, "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. _Mom_."

And sweetly, she returned, "Hush, my beloved son. I am here. My precious Jace, I am here."

"Mom," Jace repeated, almost as if he could never utter the words enough times. Then, feeling even younger than his actual self, he murmured, "Mama."

Celine let out a watery laugh and pulled away, just slightly, from their embrace. Jace allowed her, if only to gaze upon her ageless and ethereal-like face. Her nose, thin and sculpted...her chin, sharp but elegant...her mouth, small but puckered...and her eyes...eyes as familiar as his own, round and golden and so full of _life_.

"You look so pretty, Mama," he found himself speaking like a toddler. If it had been anyone else, he would have berated himself heavily for sounding so stupid, but this was _his mother_ , and he loved her too much to care.

"Why, thank you, my sweet," Celine replied with a loose chuckle, and Jace was amazed by how she seemed to glow with her smile. "I am so happy to see you, Jace."

"I am happy to see you too, Mama," he said without missing a beat. "I have missed you so much. I…" He looked away from her gaze as tears blurred his vision. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he said, "I failed you, Mama. I should have protected you from that monster, but I failed you. I'm a horrible son."

"No!" Celine shook her head as she knelt down in front of her—in Jace's mind, _unworthy_ —son. "My son, you did not fail me. You did what I told you to do. None of it was your fault. It was my time to go…"

Jace sniffled and looked up, slightly angered by her words, "So you _wanted_ to leave me?"

Celine's eyes softened. "Of course not, my darling. I had hoped—prayed to live a long life so I could watch you grow up into the man that you are today. But it was not meant to be. Do not mistake it as my wanting to leave you. Life and death isn't ours to decide, Jace. But when the time comes, we must brave ourselves to accept it...and you, my son, must learn to let go."

Jace grit his teeth, knowing very well that his mother was right, but couldn't find it in him to accept her advice. It was selfish, but he never wanted to let go of his mother. He had hoped that she would never want to let go of him as well, but…

Jace shook his head, and dropped it into his palm. Everything was so complicated, _he_ was an infuriatingly complicated mess all on his own, and this place…

Remembering where he was, Jace looked up with a jolt. The same infinite white space surrounded him, but the men—the gladiators he had slain in combat—were all gone. It was just him and his mother now.

"What is this place?" He found himself asking her. "Why am I here? Am I dead?" Finally, he looked at her, bracing himself for her answer. A trickle of panic rose in him— _Am I dead?!—_ until his mother answered with an empathic shake of her head.

"No, my son. You are not dead." She glanced at the white space, then returned her gaze to his. "I do not know where this place is. I _do_ know, however, that our time together is short, Jace, and for some reason or another, you need your mother to give you a firm swat on your behind. So tell me—"

"Are you happy where you are now? Is Dad with you?" He found himself interjecting.

Celine smiled. "I am not permitted to discuss that with you, my son." At his deflated look, she tenderly stroked his hair. "Just pray for me—and your father. Pray that we are at peace…that's all I ask. It's all you can do for us, too. Do not worry, Jace."

Jace nodded. "I promise, Mama."

"Now, we have things to discuss. Specifically, you."

"Me?"

"Yes, come sit down," Celine patted at the air where she was sitting—floating mid-air, really—and hesitantly, Jace obeyed. It was quite a disorienting experience, he thought, though it was not his priority at the moment. Still, he frowned. "Now, tell me what you have been up to, my son. Have you been eating? Sleeping well?"

Jace gave her a bemused look at her typical mothering questions. "Shouldn't you know that?"

"I am not God, Jace," his mother replied in a droll tone. "Being dead does not make one omniscient. So please, just humor your old mother, will you?"

"You are not old, Mama," Jace argued. Then deciding that it was wiser to humor her, he went on. "I have been eating adequately to keep up with my physical training. Though if you're asking in relation to my current situation, then I'm afraid the answer is no, I haven't been eating at all. Valentine and Sebastian are actually quite committed to starving me at the moment. As for sleep… Yes, I suppose I _am_ getting sleep since I'm positively unconscious by Sebastian's standards. Mighty nice chap, that one. A lot like Valentine, except younger and with black hair. You'd like him."

"Tone down the sarcasm, young man. You do not require it speaking with your mother," she chided.

In a gesture that was unbecoming of his nineteen years of age but arguably acceptable of his current ten-year-old form, Jace pouted. "Yes, Mama. I apologize."

"Apology accepted. I am pleased to see that your manners have survived the years," she said lightly.

"Only for you," he murmured, blushing lightly.

"And what is this physical training about?"

Jace flinched a little, suddenly finding it less desirous to talk to his mother. What would she feel about her son's life choices—even if it were forced upon him—as a gladiator? But if Jace remembered his mother as well as he believed he did, then evasion was certainly no option; his mother would pry the truth out of him, regardless of what clever diversion tactics he tried. No, complete honesty was best where his mother was concerned.

Jace let out a shuddering breath. "The day you died, I was sold into slavery," he began in a detached tone. "The master who bought me decided that I had the potential to be shaped into something more _useful_ , so he trained me to be his personal gladiator. And in just two years of my debut, I've killed so many already…" He trailed off, blinking back tears.

"Oh, Jace…you only did what you had to," his mother said softly, echoing words he had told himself repeatedly over the years. "There is no point in wishing that you had chosen differently. That time has gone and passed. The only thing that is left is to move forward…" Celine drew her son against her breast, consoling him, but he wasn't even listening to her anymore.

None of her words at the moment could reach him because he'd realized, through his long and detailed introspection, that self-defense was a poor excuse for his actions. Jace had long ago deemed it a necessity to perform as a gladiator—had callously deemed all those deaths as necessary stepping stones—because more than anything, he had planned, _dreamed_ , of watching Valentine perish at _his_ blade. He had not given those lives a second thought because he was greedy, selfish, and hungered for revenge.

And what _good_ was revenge?

Looking back at all the lives he'd taken, the price of the hefty burden that now lay on his soul, he blanched at the idiocy of his misguided self, whose actions had been motivated by one fleeting moment he'd hoped to achieve in the future: the superficial satisfaction derived from besting his enemy; an act that, even when performed to the best of his abilities, would neither erase the pain of his slavery, nor reverse the deaths of his parents.

 _Naive fool,_ Jace thought to himself.

As much as he could try to defend his actions, how could he ever fairly justify killing, even if it was in self-defense? And could it really be counted as self-defense or coercion if he had, admittedly, wilfully basked in the praise and glory showered by the crowds for his triumphs in the arena? A man who killed in self-defense would have been plagued with sorrow and guilt, not _joy_ at overcoming another obstacle; not _pride_ over something so petty and inconsequential as praise. To celebrate over another's death at one's hand was tantamount to cold-blooded murder.

The single blast of epiphany sent another shiver racking through Jace's young frame. For the thousandth time, he forced himself to ponder, how was he any different from Valentine in his quest for vengeance? All things considered now, how could he even think to follow through with it, even if his life depended on it? Jace was many things, but he was so certain that a hypocrite wasn't one of them. Was he wrong again? Was he so blindly complacent to not see just how far he had fallen?

"My dear son, I've allowed you sufficient time to brood. Now, look at me," his mother commanded, though Jace wanted so much to refuse. How could he even think to look at his _pure_ mother when he was so...dirty?

"I am not a perfect woman, Jace. You should not put me on such high a pedestal," his mother interposed, as if hearing his thoughts. "As short of a time I lived, I've made my share of mistakes—"

"None as bad as killing, I'm sure," Jace interrupted, self-fury alight in his golden eyes. "Mother," the word sounded so foreign on his tongue, but given his present feelings, he didn't think he deserved to utter either the word 'Mom' or 'Mama'. Both carried sentiment he didn't deserve—had long ceased to deserve. "I love you, but you do not understand. You could never understand what I've gone through, how much I _hate_ myself…" He let out an embarrassingly loud sniffle and declared, almost hysterically that his own voice cracked, "Sometimes I think I'm losing my mind."

"Shh, calm down, Jace," Celine shushed him. "My darling son, it's okay…" She coaxed him, considerate and patient as ever.

"You can't understand," he insisted stubbornly. "Even if you manage to, you'll only end up hating me."

"I could never hate you, my son," Celine intoned firmly. "You may have your doubts, but never doubt a mother's love for her child. Regardless of what you've done, I will always love you. _Always_."

Touched by the fierce sincerity of her words, Jace found himself leaning into his mother and sobbing. It was cathartic, to be able to release his anguish in the form of something so tangible—without the fear of being judged, or misjudged for weakness. Time seemed to pass in a span of hours, though Jace didn't know for certain how long it had been.

The moment he was done crying, he felt, oddly, calm and at peace. Gathering his wits about him, he braced himself to tell his mother what he had done; prepared himself to face her disappointment.

But as was her tendency, Celine would have the first and last say.

"You don't have to tell me anything more than what you already have," she said, much to Jace's bewildered surprise that he found all his resolve crumble into pieces.

"But… Mama…"

"It matters not to me what you've done in the past. I am but a human, Jace," she gently reminded him. "It is not my place to judge you, and so, it is not necessary for you to tell me," she said in a soothing tone. "However, it is necessary for me to impart the lessons that I have learned, so listen carefully, my son. And take heart to my words…"

Feeling every bit of a chastened young boy, Jace nodded obediently.

"Our lives may be short and unpredictable, but we should never mistake the beauty of living, even in the face of our darkest trials. We are all tested differently, Jace. Your battles may turn out to be harder than some, but that's not a reason for you to lose yourself. Your failures may disappoint you, anger you, or even devastate you, but do not lose hope. Learn. Take strength from what you have lost and use it to become a better person," Celine said in a manner that was reminiscent of the wise queen that she once was.

"And in times when you feel despaired and lost, remember that you are never alone… Remember that there is always hope for redemption, as long as you hold true to _faith_. That's extremely important for you to remember, my son. You cannot go back in time and wish that you had done things differently; life does not work like that. So move on. Move on and let go of your guilt. Pass on what you have learned to others…to your wife and to your children, so they know not to make the same mistakes as you have." Celine paused and stroked her son's cheek.

"I am proud of you, my son. You have lived a hard life, so one of my other advice to you is to be kind to yourself, too. Regret is necessary; it shows that you have a conscience...but even so, do not be so hard on yourself, hm? Believe that you want to be good, then do good, and hopefully, everything else will fall into place."

Again, Jace nodded as he internalized his mother's speech. "Yes, Mama," he responded with quiet grace. A part of him was stirring with a particularly strange feeling he couldn't quite place—almost like déjà vu—and with it, he felt a certain amount of relief as well. His mother's words had struck a chord within him, and he felt strongly, the need to hold onto them tightly.

"Will I remember this when I wake up?" Jace wondered aloud.

"I'm not entirely certain…although given all that we have discussed, I hope so."

"I will miss you so much when I wake up, Mama," he confessed. "I wish I had allowed you to hug me and kiss me more when I was growing up. You always did give the best of both. There's nothing I miss more than that."

Celine cracked a huge smile at this. "Oh? I always knew the whole 'I'm too old for this' was just an act," she teased him as she pulled him into a strong embrace, filling his nostrils with the familiar scent of his mother. Then—and Jace blushed heavily at this—she planted a long, tender kiss onto her son's forehead. "How's that? Almost as good as the kisses I used to give you?"

"Mm-hmm," Jace hummed, content.

Just then, the air seemed to shift and Celine's demeanor turned somber. "My son, when you return, I sense you'll have certain difficult decisions to make…"

Jace furrowed his brow. "How did you know _that_? I thought you said you weren't omniscient."

"Mother's intuition, love," Celine jokingly replied. Softer still, she asked, "Do you wish to confide in me about anything else?"

"Well, you are here for a reason, Mama," Jace decided with a boyish grin. "If I tell you, will you help me decide what to do?"

"Jace, I cannot tell you how to decide," his mother chuckled. "But I can offer my opinion…"

"I'll take it," Jace couldn't resist the enthusiastic jibe.

In a much sober tone, he explained, "Sebastian and I will be meeting in a fight-to-the-death match. And after, if I succeed, I wish to challenge Valentine to the same." Jace paused and let out a long-suffering sigh. "But at the same time… I'm starting to doubt if it's right for me to pursue this path… All this time, I've killed under the guise of self-defense, and while even that may be a questionable alibi, I know how different this entire thing with Valentine and Sebastian is. Those gladiators I killed had not wronged me in any way, so I felt no grudge against them when I killed them. But I _hate_ Valentine and Sebastian. I actually _want_ to kill them. If I act on those feelings and follow them through the end, what would that make _me_?"

Sufficiently worn out by his tirade, Jace sprawled out against the space he and his mother had earlier claimed to be the 'floor'. "That last question was rhetorical, by the way," he chimed in a tired tone. "Even I know the subtleties between killing and murdering."

His mother gave him a wan smile. "As a pacifist, I would have urged you to take the path of diplomacy and negotiation," she said, causing Jace's face to scrunch in patented look of disbelief, "but considering your circumstances, that might not work. Therefore, perhaps the only thing you have to work around is that subtlety." Celine paused with a long and thoughtful look. "I know nothing about being a soldier, or a gladiator, to properly advise you on this," she said in all manner of sincerity. "However, one thing I do feel strongly over is that your intent needs to change, my son. Do not kill out of hatred or revenge; neither is beneficial. If you have to, do it out of self-defense…but also in the pursuit of _justice_. Valentine and Sebastian are not innocents, so a huge part of your decision has to be weighed against necessity. What are the consequences of granting mercy on Valentine and Sebastian? Is execution the only justifiable punishment for their crimes?"

"They're a pair of sadists, Mama. Tyrants like them should have never risen to the throne; they do nothing but oppress and hurt their own people. Did you know that after Valentine seized control of Idris, he sanctioned a purge against Father's loyalists? God knows thousands—maybe _more_ —of innocent people have been mindlessly butchered because of him. Even now, he rules Idris with an iron fist, collecting heavy taxes to fund the games while our people live in poverty. And then there's the gladiators—people he's _enslaved_ for the sole purpose of entertaining him at the expense of their own lives! So _you_ tell _me_ , does that sound like a man who should be given mercy? He's had years to decide to change and prove himself to be a just ruler, but he threw it all away for his own greed and selfishness," Jace was huffing angrily by this point. "If it matters to you, executing Valentine isn't a decision that I've come to make on my own. I've had counsel from Prince Jonathan and his followers—or rather, Valentine's _former_ followers who have only recently defected…"

"I see," Celine responded. "And Sebastian? Who is he?"

Rage built inside of Jace from the mention of the other man's name. "Sebastian is the newly crowned king of Alicante, and Valentine's closest ally at the moment. Like Valentine, he has a warped view on slavery and walks around with an air of self-dignified superiority. In the short time I've known him, he's already acquainted me to some of his favorite pastimes, which include obsessing over my wife and senselessly torturing me. If he falls upon my sword, I most certainly will not be reduced to weeping. _The bloody scoundrel can go rot in hell for all I care_."

"Language!" His mother scolded with a hard smack to his head.

"Ow! Was that necessary?"

"I did not raise an uncouth son. Whatever foul words you have learned in your youth, I suggest you discard them from your vocabulary, my son, lest God grant me the ability to come back in the form of a ghost to haunt you each time you even think of uttering them!"

Jace opened his mouth, ready to launch a playful retort, when abruptly, he stopped…and merely stared at his mother, his expression inscrutable and his mind racing a mile a minute.

A part of him, though well-concealed, was astounded to discover that while one part of his brain had been engaged with this conversation with his mother, the other had been studiously, albeit silently, contemplating the actuality of this entire experience itself.

What were the odds that while his body was in a current comatose state, that his soul had somehow learned to astral project into an interdimensional realm where he could _finally_ reach his mother? The question had spun around in his head, over and over again, until finally Jace had come to the conclusion: it was possible, _maybe_ , but the more probable explanation was one he had dismissed earlier. Everything—from the white space to the ghosts of the gladiators he had killed, and even his own dead mother—was a product of an extremely vivid dream. A dream designed to… _Oh!_

Golden eyes blinking widely as comprehension dawned on him, Jace felt as if the proverbial bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over him, destroying the semblance of peace he had struggled to find, much less contain, within himself.

He looked away from the vision— _apparition?_ —in front of him, suddenly unable to bear it. "You're not real," he uttered in a heartbroken whisper. Even if he understood the purpose of the dream, he couldn't help but feel hurt and deceived by the fact that it was all just an illusion. That _she_ wasn't real. "This is all just a dream… I should have realized that sooner. I…" He cleared his throat, hastily swiping at the tears leaking past his eyes.

 _How could this only be a dream? How?_ The part of him that wanted so badly to refute this conclusion cried, but Jace knew better than to feed his self-denial.

How could it _not_ be a dream? He challenged the weeping voice. The human mind, after all, was both complex and powerful; it wouldn't be far-fetched to assume that everything here was a visual manipulation of his innermost thoughts and feelings; his deepest fears, anxieties and dilemmas brought to light. When else, while he was actually awake, would he have forced himself to really work through his issues? As introspective as he tended to be, he was also adept at both blocking and ignoring things he felt he wasn't ready to face—and probably would never be ready to face if he had a definitive say in it. That was why this dream occurred—

Because within the deep caverns of his subconscious, he knew that he needed to face himself, to reach deeply into his mind and exhume the remains of the the young and innocent boy who had been buried, almost forgotten, underneath the tough layers of resentment, tragedy and violence. The young boy, before the massacre wrought by Valentine, had been a bright spark filled with love, determination, selflessness, intellect and empathy.

Nineteen-year-old Jace still had the same qualities, but he was also vastly different. In spite of his many good qualities, he was cynical, less trusting of others, pessimistic, and at times, dark. Hence, at the moment when it would matter the most, the boy would be his moral compass, the one who centered him when the angry and vengeful Jace threatened to leap out.

Then, of course, there was his mother… His beloved, sweet, wise mother… From the moment Jace first began to form his opinions, Celine Herondale had always been there, like a living pearl of wisdom to provide him with knowledge and insight on the world and how it worked. She had never shied away from asking him the important questions, which was why, he suspected his conscience had chosen to manifest itself in her form.

In spite of himself, Jace couldn't help but let out a mirthless laugh. What his subconscious had done to him was cruel, and dared he say, crueler than even Valentine himself. But he applauded his mind for its meticulous attention to detail, from his mother's _motherly_ concern to the frequent but well-intentioned chastisement. No wonder he didn't think any differently of it at first. She had seemed so, _so_ real. Even the long speech she had given earlier—on trials, redemption and faith—had been a reprise of her advice to him on his tenth birthday. Only, he had taken a much longer time to work that one out because like most good memories from his childhood, it had been kept in abeyance, relegated to the portion of his brain that had been mentally labeled as 'less important'.

"I'm sorry for disappointing you," Celine's apparition chimed in a formal tone, causing Jace to inadvertently flinch. "I'm sorry that _she_ cannot be really here. But you do know, don't you? Deep down, you know. Even if you can't see her anymore, her memory lives within you. And those memories can be _good_ and serve you well...if you let them."

Jace nodded, knowing that every part of him agreed with her, but still, he refused to look up. "Can you please stop talking about yourself in the third person… Please?" _God, did his heart ever ache so much…_ "Even if you're not real, you're my… You're still my _Mom_. Just allow me this one small mercy and let me pretend, will you? It's all I ask… _Please…_ "

"I will," his mother's voice replied, "if you allow me to remind you of one other piece of advice."

Finally, Jace looked up, and without thinking, his hands reached out to grab his mother's. It was odd, he supposed, because in reality, all these conversations were a product of his own mind data—his own memories. All technicalities considered, he was actually speaking to _himself_ —

Jace shook his head, grimacing slightly at the pounding ache resonating from an unknown part of his brain. Was it even possible for him to have a headache in a dream? Everything about this entire experience was proving to be extremely discombobulating.

"Tell me then. Tell me what else I've neglected to remember," Jace urged her, suddenly desperate to hear her speak more. Even if the truth of his dream had been revealed, the novelty that was Celine Herondale's presence hadn't worn off. He wanted to cling onto this…this _memory_ of his mother, before the dream, as he suspected it, came to an end. "Tell me," he said, more urgently this time.

"Forgive," the apparition of his mother replied, as little by little, she began to fade into a shimmer of golden light. "Teach yourself to forgive the people who have hurt you. Remember, Jace. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that…"

"Mom, don't go!"

There was a bright flash of light—the brightest Jace had ever seen—that he found himself powerless against its luminescent glow. He raised his arms to shield himself, but the light penetrated his eyelids even then, that he found unconsciousness beginning to slip past his mental shields.

His mother's hand in his grip disappeared, but Jace was so far past the level of awareness to respond to its cold and severe loss. He was, once again, falling asleep. And there would be no more dreams this time.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Ok, so as the title suggests, this chapter isn't really a chapter, but an interlude...or an outtake, if you will.**_

 _ **Yes, old readers, this is completely brand new material. Not so great, I've to admit, but I saw an opportunity to explore Jace's psychosis further while he is in a comatose state (as per the events that took place last chapter)...and took it.**_

 _ **I know, it's kind of a jerk move to reveal it all as nothing more than a dream at the end...but I think that's the twisted beauty of the human mind. One shouldn't immediately discount dreams; Jace's, in particular, show that dreams can sometimes have great meaning. We saw how he worked out a lot of heavy stuff here that he would have probably swept aside and neglected in the real world, by projecting memories of his mother's past advice.**_

 _ **Plus, we saw more of Celine and her relationship with Jace, which to me, is a wonderful thing. Again, Celine may have just been Jace's projections, but she is a useful projection because she doesn't just coddle him, but instead, reminds him of the more important things; things he has forgotten due to his hate and obsession with revenge clouding his mind. That isn't to say that Jace's inner conflict has been resolved and he would awaken with a suddenly clearer head, but he has more things to think about now. Kinda pushing more things onto his plate, but they're very necessary to his character development, so...**_

 ** _What do you guys think?_**

 ** _I'll try my best to upload the next chapter soon, but no promises of when that'll be. But yes, we will know THEN the outcome of Clary's deal with Sebastian, and we will see Clace's reunion._**

* * *

 ** _Until then, please review/follow/favorite this story and stay tuned for more updates!_**

 ** _p.s. I am most grateful to all of you guys who have reviewed thus far. I know reviewing is your prerogative, but it certainly makes me feel more motivated, and in some way or another, it makes me feel that my effort is paying off when you guys let me know that you're interested/enjoying the story._**

 ** _Ah, and last but not least... The quote: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that…" is an excerpt of a slightly longer quote by Martin Luther King, Jr. so credits to him for inspiring that line._**

 ** _peace xoxo_**


	22. Chapter 20: For Better Or For Worse

**_A/N: Repost again for those who might have missed Sunday's update. Pretty please, can we try to hit 148 reviews with this chapter? :D_**

* * *

 ** _Author's Note: Finally an update. My love and thanks as always to my wonderful reviewers. Muah!_**

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

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 **CHAPTER 20: FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE**

 **December 28, 508**

Clary stroked Jace's sweaty blond curls back, a worried expression on her face as she stared down into her husband's unconscious face. He looked so lifeless, that if it weren't for the slight rise and fall movements of his chest as he breathed, Clary would've believed that he was dead. Even now, a little more than twenty-hours after their reunion, the physical improvement from him seemed infinitesimal; he had barely twitched or let out a snore, or even mumble a few incomprehensible words as he was so inclined to do when he was sleeping.

 _That's because he isn't sleeping. He's in a coma,_ her conscience reminded her.

Clary involuntarily shuddered. Although she was grateful for being able to be by Jace's side while he healed, she had to admit that watching him in a limbo-like state was difficult. He was alive, _thank God_ , but she resented that he had been put through such an abuse in the first place.

 _God help him. Please let him be okay,_ she prayed for the thousandth time. _Please._

Blinking back tears, Clary bent down to kiss the gladiator's cheek before burying her face there. He smelt unwashed, a disconcerting odor of sweat and blood combined, but even then, Clary couldn't be bothered to care. Jace was real and solid in her arms, and for now, that was all that mattered, even if she yearned for more.

"I love you, Jace. Please, just wake up…I need you. I need you so much." Her soft voice pleaded into his ear. She wrapped her arms around his unconscious frame, wanting to squeeze him tightly in her hold, but at the same time, she was afraid of hurting him.

A warm hand came to rest on her shoulder and she looked up into the owner's fond, cat-like eyes. "He'll be okay, Clary," Magnus reassured her, his velvety voice providing a smidge of comfort as she was reminded that she wasn't alone, but in the company of a very trusted friend. "From what I can tell, Jace is responding well to the treatment. He will wake up soon."

Clary nodded mutely as she eyed the tube that had been carefully inserted into Jace's stomach. Magnus had briefly explained to her that aside from the physical and mental trauma Jace had endured at Sebastian's hand, he had also been in a severely dehydrated state when he first found him. So with no other option available to him, Magnus had sought out the use of the tube to administer Jace with a mixture of hydration fluids and other nutrients to help replenish his strength, along with some anodynes to alleviate the pain of the other injuries he'd sustained.

"When?" Clary glanced at Magnus through bloodshot eyes.

"I don't know the answer to that, Biscuit. He'll wake up when his body is healed and ready," Magnus said gently. Then, almost immediately, his expression hardened as he scrutinized her disheveled appearance disapprovingly. "As for you, Milady, you need to rest. You cannot just put off sleep because you're worried about Jace," the doctor chided, causing her to flinch.

 _Sleep?_ Indeed, sleeping did sound like a very appealing idea. Save for the two-hour blackout she experienced after her encounter with Sebastian, Clary had yet to give herself the respite both her mind and body had been craving for. She was tired, and extremely so. A good, proper sleep was long overdue…yet, she couldn't bring herself to heed her own physiological needs. How could she be expected to sleep when Jace was in such a precarious condition? If their roles were reversed, would he not have stayed up until she came to, too?

"I can't, Magnus," she replied weakly. "Jace needs me." It was a ridiculous excuse, she realized, only after she had uttered it. How could she possibly know what Jace needed? And even if her statement was partially true, how could she possibly help Jace? She was no doctor.

"Clary," Magnus intoned in a no-nonsense voice. " _Go. To. Sleep._ I'll be here the whole time to watch over Jace, so you can stop worrying about him. There's nothing that you can do for him by staying up anyway, so you might as well catch up on your sleep. For Heaven's sake, Clary, you look like the living dead. I can guarantee you that if Jace wakes up and sees you like this, he'll probably relapse into a shock-induced coma. You don't want that to happen now, do you?"

Certainly, it would have been easier if Clary had just complied, but the young princess was tired of compliance, even more than she was _physically_ tired. She had endured enough orders from her father and Sebastian. So just this once, couldn't she be left to do what she wanted without Magnus dictating what she should or shouldn't do?

"I'm staying awake," she argued stubbornly. "And I suggest you leave it alone, Magnus. I know what I'm doing. I don't need you to order me around."

"That isn't what I'm trying to do, Biscuit," Magnus replied with a heavy sigh.

"Oh?" She challenged him. "Your tone implies otherwise."

From the metaphorical dagger look he was shooting her, Clary could see that Magnus's patience was wearing thin, and fast. No doubt he was also recalling how she had fought tooth and nail against eating the food that Sebastian had prepared for her earlier, too. Even then, she'd had her reasons. The last thing she had wanted was to give the Alicantean king more 'perceived' control over her, even if it had meant starving herself. Unfortunately, it was the threat of a feeding tube that had made her concede—begrudgingly.

But Clary wasn't about to give in a second time.

"You misunderstand me. I am merely performing my duty as a doctor. And _duty_ mandates me to ensure that I always put my patients' best interests first," was Magnus's surprisingly diplomatic reply. At Clary's attempted protest, he added, "Ah, ah, ah—even if you claim otherwise, my professional opinion recognizes you as that: a patient."

"Then I discharge myself from your care."

Magnus grit his teeth. " _Clarissa_ ," he ground out in a warning tone. "You know what? Fine, put it this way," he said, decidedly changing his tactics. "If you won't listen to my advice as your doctor, then at least heed the _favor_ I ask of you as your _friend_. It's the least you can do for me anyhow considering all the times I've helped you out on a whim."

It was manipulative of him, Clary thought dryly as she pondered over her friend's words. Even if she knew that Magnus bore no actual hostility by his statement, he had succeeded at drawing out her guilt and making her reevaluate her decision. A favor—she certainly owed him _dozens_ of favors for all he had done for her over the years. Because as much as Magnus Bane liked projecting himself to be aloof, holding himself a grade above all others, he had always answered her call for help, no matter how inconvenient they were. He was a true friend, a companion like no other, loyal and trustworthy and…

Clary sighed, knowing that he had already defeated her. "Very well, I will honor your request," she submitted, though a part of her cursed her resolve for breaking.

"I'm so glad you agree," Magnus snarked.

Clary would have rolled her eyes at the unneeded sarcasm, but she was far too fatigued to even summon the ability of performing the simple gesture. As if realizing it too, the young doctor gave her a smug grin which conveyed the same impression of the words, "I told you so."

Magnus Bane was really the _bane_ of her existence sometimes.

"Promise me something?" Clary couldn't resist asking as her attention returned to her husband. Her anxiety came flooding back in waves, and she found herself having to take deep breaths lest she went into a panic attack. Was it so surprising that her reluctance to sleep was attributed to her fear of being separated from Jace while they were both unconscious? She didn't think so. "If Jace wakes up, you'll wake me up too, won't you?"

Magnus's yellowish-green eyes softened. "Of course I will, darling," he said in a firm but gentle tone meant to comfort her. Then in a softer voice, he said, "You rest easy for now…okay?"

Clary gave a reluctant nod, before proceeding to lie down on her side next to Jace. Huddling up as closely as she could against him, she wrapped her arm around his waist, holding onto him tightly, willing herself to not let go of him—ever—until they were both awake.

"Please wake up soon. I want to see those beautiful golden eyes looking at me again," she whispered, pressing her mouth to his cheek. "I love you, Jace." As soon as those four words left her mouth, her worried green eyes fell shut, and sleep claimed her in its clutches.

* * *

 **December 29, 508**

Somewhere between the realms of sleep and wakefulness, Clary was slowly roused from her dreams to the feeling of a warm, callused hand gently caressing her cheek. She smiled, leaning her face further into the hand's comforting touch. As her green eyes fluttered open, she was met with the familiar, loving gaze of her husband—Jace.

They were both lying on their sides facing each other, Jace's hand still on Clary's cheek as his thumb continued its gentle ministrations, smoothly tracing a path along her delicate cheekbone.

Instantly, Clary's eyes roamed his face, only for a look of disbelief to appear on her own face. She didn't know how it was possible, but somehow, Jace looked brighter, healthier, the sickly pallor gone from his face. He was also fully-dressed in a new set of clothes now, albeit it being his standard gladiator attire. But most startlingly of all, he appeared as if he had taken a bath—

 _No, absurd,_ she thought. _When could he have possibly found the time or had the luxury to take a bath?_ However, a brief, discreet sniff of air indicated the subtle smell of soap clinging to his skin, and he was no longer mingled with the sickly stench of sweat. Clary's frown deepened. _This must be a truly vivid dream,_ she mused.

 _You're being ridiculous,_ another part of her brain echoed. _Of all things, you're concerned about whether or not your husband had a bath? Be happy—he's finally awake!_

 _I am happy,_ Clary silently argued. _But I think I'm entitled to have my doubts._

Then, Jace smiled that beautiful smile of his, and Clary couldn't help but return it, even though her reaction was stalled by hesitation. She saw Jace opening his mouth, presumably to speak against her doubts, but instead, her hand had other ideas—she slapped him. Jace's golden eyes widened comically, but Clary apparently still wasn't convinced enough as she proceeded to cup both his cheeks in between her palms and pinched them, hard.

"Ouch! Clarissa _Adele_ Herondale—"

"Oh, Jace! You're _really_ awake," she declared with relieved laugh, belatedly correcting herself in her head: _I mean,_ I'm _awake and not dreaming_. "I'm so sorry," she said, rubbing his cheeks apologetically. "How—"

The rest of Clary's words were drowned in her throat as Jace crushed his lips to hers, expressing everything the both of them wanted to say without putting them into actual words: their love, their worry, and above all, their unmistakable joy to be in each other's arms again.

When they finally resurfaced for air, they pressed their foreheads together, taking several moments just to breathe each other in. Jace slipped his arm around Clary's waist, running his hand up her back before tangling it in her hair. She nuzzled her nose against his before kissing the corner of his mouth, her eyes closed in contentment.

"How long have you been awake?" Clary asked him, somewhat dazed and light-headed from their kiss.

Jace pulled her closer to himself and tucked her head underneath his chin. Kissing the crown of her head, he smiled to himself. "About two hours ago," he replied in a lazy, drawling tone.

Clary's green eyes flew open in surprise, and she withdrew from Jace with a clumsy speed that nearly left him reeling with a clobbered jaw. "Two hours ago?" She echoed incredulously.

Her green eyes flew to Magnus, only just remembering that he was in the cells with them. Despite the narrow-eyed, accusatory look she was shooting him, he still had the gall to grin at her, which made her fume even more. She had never known anyone else to be quite as brave or infuriating as Magnus Bane. Very few intimidated him—and she was certainly not one of them.

"Magnus! You _promised_ that you'd wake me up when Jace wakes up. Why didn't you?"

At her decidedly unhappy tone, Magnus pulled himself up into a straighter sitting position. "Clary, dear, I was doing you a favor. You needed the sleep. Just ask Jace—the extra two hours has made a huge improvement on your appearance." Unfortunately, the effectiveness of his attempted persuasion was dampened by a loud and rather inelegant yawn. "Trust me, Biscuit," he added, more nonchalantly rather than defensively this time, "you look a lot better now than you did eleven hours ago."

Clary's mouth fell agape. " _Eleven hours?_ I've been asleep for eleven hours?" Then her face darkened with anger. "How could you have let me sleep for so long?" She snapped, only to have Jace's hand gently clamp itself over her mouth.

"Hush, sweetheart. There's no need to take this out on Magnus. He's only looking out for you, just like he's been looking out for me," he reasoned, wisely taking on the role of a peacekeeper. After giving the doctor a quick once-over, he whispered to her, " _Look._ "

The single whispered command gave the young princess pause. As she examined her friend's appearance now, her stomach coiled with guilt. While Jace was recovering well and looking more like himself, Magnus was a stark contrast; unflattering lines of exhaustion marring his face, and his usually styled hair was an unappealing, flat mop atop his head. Worse, there wasn't a single speck of glitter to be found on his person! It was an odd sight, for she had never seen her eccentric friend appear so normal-looking before, even when he was dressed in his night clothes. That alone spoke volumes of his selfless dedication to their care.

Jace was right—Magnus certainly didn't deserve her pointless rage or ingratitude. He deserved to be commended, not scolded. "I'm sorry, Magnus," she told him in a soft apologetic tone. "I didn't mean to be so tactless. I meant to say 'thank you'…for everything that you've done for us, for being here with us. Please, will you forgive me?"

Never one to hold onto a grudge, Magnus gave her a reassuring wink to let her know that he wasn't at all offended by her waspish attitude earlier. "Don't fret over it, Biscuit. I made a promise to your mother that I would always look after you and Jon," he disclosed, much to her surprise. "And now," he dragged out a tired smile, "I suppose that includes Jace as well."

Clary nodded, touched by her friend's sincere admission. She was about to reiterate her thanks when something—a name he had spoken earlier—stole her attention. Instantly, the intended expression of gratitude was forgotten as her insides began to churn with fear and worry.

"Jon!" She shouted her brother's name before bolting upright into a kneeling position. "Magnus," she said his name as if she were begging him, " _Please_ tell me that you've seen or heard from Jon. The last Jace and I saw of him was the evening before we were captured. Jon was supposed to be meeting with Patrick. Did Valentine—"

"I'm afraid that nobody knows where Jonathan is, Clary," Magnus interrupted her panicked rant with a solemn expression. "I'm not entirely sure if Valentine or Sebastian has anything to do with his sudden disappearance, but the fact of the matter is, no one's seen him in days. After you were found to be… _consorting_ with Jace, Jonathan became an immediate suspect for abetting in your secret marriage. My guess is that he's gone into hiding."

Lost in a swirl of uneasy thoughts, Clary stiffened when Jace suddenly pulled her onto his lap. He wrapped a protective arm around her, pressing his cheek softly against her own, and she allowed herself to relax into him. Internally, however, she found herself struggling to cope. There was no comfort that could be taken from Magnus's words—her brother was _missing_. No one had seen him since the day the Herondales had been captured. If Jon weren't already dead, then there was more than likely a bounty on his head. She wouldn't put it past Valentine to dismiss the concept of flesh and blood; he had more than adequately shown through his actions that his priority revolved around power and nothing else. Her mother, Luke, Jace's parents…they were all victims of Valentine's monstrosity…

"What if…what if Valentine had him killed and had his body dumped in the Forbidden Forest?" Clary asked in a strangled voice as her eyes glazed over with unshed tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jace murmured. As she choked back a sob and buried her face into his neck, he began to rub her back in a soothing motion. "Shh, it's all right, Clary… I'm sure that Jon's just fine," he said gently. "He…he probably found out about us being captured by Valentine, and is hiding somewhere safe so that he can plan his next move to help us. You know how smart and resourceful he is. He will be fine," he said, trying to convince her— _Or is he trying to convince himself?_ Clary couldn't help but think. She knew her husband well enough to know when he was doubtful, which he certainly was right now.

"The old man," Jace addressed Magnus in reference to Patrick Penhallow, "hasn't been captured, has he?"

Clary glanced briefly at Magnus to catch his tight smile. "The old man's fine," he answered. "He's had years of practice with discretion; no one suspects him. Fortunately, none of the others have been compromised either. Valentine's been quiet about this whole thing—no arrests so far. I suspect it's because he doesn't want word leaking to the masses about your…situation. _Also_ ," Magnus grinned at this, "as difficult as it may be to believe this, I think he's sulking because he's embarrassed that you managed to fool him for so long."

Had the timing been more convenient, Clary would have probably smiled at Magnus's joke, but as it were, she didn't think it to be appropriate. There was a time when she would have given anything to have her father renounce all the evil he's committed—that time had long ceased to exist. Clary was tired of waiting on a father whose only ambition was motivated by power and selfishness and greed. As it were, everything seemed to be headed in a bleak direction; her desperation to seek out hope has, in turn, made her feel as if she were stumbling around blindly in the dark, trying to find the elusive light out of the ever thickening fog. Being with Jace helped, but she was still at a loss. What if both Jace and her brother died, leaving her to fend for herself on her own? Although her body would survive, she knew that her will to live wouldn't.

Sinking deeper into Jace's embrace, she closed her eyes and pursed her trembling lips together. _Oh Jon, where are you? Please, please be safe. I can't lose you, too. Please be alive,_ she silently cried, trying to project her thoughts to her brother, wherever he might be.

Magnus cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt, but you two should eat now," he announced, gesturing to the rather large tin canister sitting at his side. Clary's nose scrunched at the word 'eat', even though her body growled hungrily at the prospect of sustenance. "Clary, I trust you won't fight me on this now that Jace is awake. After the feeding tube, I'm certain that _he_ is not averse to the idea of eating." He gave both of them pointed looks, as if daring them to protest.

"I'm starved," Jace answered earnestly.

Magnus smirked victoriously as he pushed the canister towards them, together with a giant flask of water. "Catch, Herondale," he said, tossing him a wooden spoon.

Jace caught it with ease. "Thanks, Magnus."

"The soup's probably cold—"

"We appreciate it," Clary finally spoke up as Jace removed the lid on the canister, revealing a creamy-looking soup with bits of diced chicken inside.

"Good, good," Magnus said before leaning back against the wall and allowing himself a nap.

In spite of herself, Clary's heart warmed at the sight. _Poor Magnus_ , she thought. _He probably hasn't slept in_ days _because of us…_

"Here, sweetheart," Jace nudged Clary gently as he held the wooden spoon to her mouth.

Clary obliged, and was stunned to find herself enjoying the taste of the soup, cold as it was. But then again, she was famished and would have probably eaten anything Jace fed her.

Speaking of her husband, either he had sensed her ravenous appetite or he was, once again, choosing selflessness over self; Clary couldn't help but notice how he was feeding her more often than he did himself. She furrowed her eyebrows at him, wanting to protest against his altruism, but he only shook his head at her with a smile, and said, "It's fine."

When the soup was finished, he set the spoon down and summoned the flask of water to his hand. After several long gulps, he brought the mouth of the flask up to his wife's lips, gently ordering her to drink. Clary blushed, realizing how it must have looked this entire time: a spoilt princess being fed by her convalescent husband. It should have been the reverse; _she_ should have been taking care of _him_ instead.

"Thank you," she murmured sheepishly after drinking her fill.

"You're very welcome, sweetheart," Jace said, kissing her temple. Noticing her troubled expression, he asked her, "What's wrong?"

"I should have been the one feeding you," Clary admitted. "You're still recovering…"

"I'm well enough, my love. You mustn't worry too much about me," Jace said, cupping her cheek. "When else can I possibly indulge my beloved wife?"

"You indulge me too much, I fear," she replied to his teasing remark.

"I am one in a million," he shrugged.

"That you are, Jace Herondale." She paused for a moment before asking the question that had been floating in the back of her mind for a while now. "Did you have a bath recently?"

Jace smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "As much of a bath as a gladiator and high-profiled prisoner of Morgenstern-Verlac can hope to get around here," was his cryptic answer.

Clary frowned, not quite understanding what he meant but realized quickly that the subject matter was better left unexplained. Still, she couldn't resist saying, "I was hoping I could get a bath, too. I smell funny."

"I'd rather you not. I don't trust the guards to give you the proper privacy required for a bath. _Besides_ ," Jace's smile was more genuine this time. "I think you smell just fine, love. Even if you don't, well…I still love you, you know."

"Hmm, you must think it petty of me to be thinking of a bath at a time like this," she grumbled, flushing slightly from embarrassment.

"Just a little bit. Although, it's more endearing to me, and somewhat of a relief that you care so much about personal hygiene," he teased her.

"You're insufferable."

"I am the love of your life."

"Point."

Moving herself off of her husband's lap, Clary purposefully turned her attention to Magnus, who was slumped against the wall in an awkward position, fast asleep.

She frowned to herself, realizing how uncomfortable it must be for the doctor to fall asleep in this dingy, rotten cell with them. Magnus had sacrificed more than enough time and energy for them by keeping constant vigil during their temporary incapacity. That, in her mind, had earned him the proper rest he needed within the comforts of his own home. Besides, this could very well be the last night she spent with Jace. Did she really want to spend her (possibly) last few moments with her husband with Magnus around as their caretaker?

"Tell Magnus to go home," Jace's voice nudged her out of her thoughts. Clary turned back to him, and he smiled softly at her before pecking her chastely on the lips. "He should rest up. We'll be fine here," he said, echoing her sentiments.

Clary nodded to convey her agreement before crawling over to her friend.

"Magnus," she whisper-called. Tucking a slender curl behind her ear, she shook his shoulder gently. "Magnus, wake up."

Magnus let out a small noise of irritation before swatting her hand away. "Not now, Alec. I'm trying to sleep. Go cuddle with Chairman Meow," he groaned, sleep thick in his voice.

Clary looked wide-eyed at him, momentarily befuddled by his response. _Alec? Who's Alec?_ She thought. Then it dawned on her; Jace had told her about his childhood best friend and gladiator comrade, Alec Lightwood, who was also Isabelle's older brother.

"Magnus, it's _Clary_ ," she stressed on her name, "Wake up!"

Magnus immediately shot upright, alarmed and wide awake. His yellowish-green eyes darted wildly about his surroundings before they finally landed on Clary. He expelled a sigh, which to her sounded a whole lot like relief, but strangely also, disappointment.

"Oh, Biscuit. It's just you," Magnus said. He rubbed his eyes tiredly before sparing her a concerned glance. "What do you need?"

"Nothing in particular, actually," she replied as she bit into her lower lip. Magnus looked a little miffed by this, so she quickly amended herself. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to go home and rest. I'm feeling much better now…and Jace seems to be okay. I'm sure we'll be able to manage ourselves. Just go home and get some sleep," she said, patting his shoulder.

"But," Magnus started to protest. "What if—"

"Look who's being stubborn now. Oh, how the tables have turned," she said in an amused tone. "Go home and sleep, Magnus. Replenish yourself with your glitter; God knows how terrible you look without it," she joked.

Magnus narrowed his eyes at her, before twisting his torso to the side and cracking his back noisily. "Bossy," he retorted. "I'll have you know that I look fabulous— _with_ or _without_ glitter."

He leaned towards her then, as if he were about to impart a secret joke. Clary inclined her head towards him, just for the sake of humoring him, but the words that left his mouth were anything but humorous.

"Clary, you need to tell Jace about what happened between you and Sebastian," he conveyed in a hushed tone.

Though she tried not to, Clary recoiled away from her friend sharply. Of all the things she could have expected him to say, this was certainly the furthest thing from her mind. Despite being privy to the knowledge of what Sebastian had done to her, Magnus he had not once even brought up the matter to her directly while Jace was unconscious. She had thought that it meant an unspoken agreement between them to pretend the _incident_ had never happened…

Evidently not.

"Clary, listen," Magnus said, gripping her hand in his. "Listen to me, darling." His eyes flickered over to Jace, who was now eyeing them with curiosity bordering on suspicion. "Jace was unsettled, to say the least, when he found the both of us here. He knows that Sebastian is allowing us to be with him for a reason. He's convinced that _you_ must have made some sort of deal with him for him to give Jace an even match for the games," he whispered.

Clary, trying not to flinch from the feeling of her husband's stare at her back, shook her head. "I can't tell him, Magnus," she whispered back, her voice cracking slightly as she remembered what Sebastian had done to her. "He'll hate me. He'll never look at me the same way again," she sobbed quietly, knowing that she couldn't risk Jace overhearing her, even though she was aware of how futile her efforts were. Jace was perceptive, especially when it came to her.

"Clary, he's your husband. He deserves to know what you've done—or more accurately, what _Sebastian_ has done to _you_. Secrets never last, Clary. You and Jace know that better than anyone. Jace will be even more angry with you if he finds out that you've been deliberately keeping your deal with Sebastian from him," Magnus reasoned gently with her. "Tell him."

"I…can't…"

"As hard as you may find this to believe, he'll never hate you for _that_ , Clary. Trust me."

But Clary found herself doubting Magnus's words. No matter how much he loved her, Jace would truly find her disgusting if he knew.

"Clary, what's going on?" Jace finally spoke up from behind them, his voice laced with warranted suspicion over their not-so-discreet private conversation.

Clary quickly dried her tears before turning around to give Jace a tight-lipped smile. "Nothing, honey. Magnus was just giving me instructions on what I have to do to keep up with your care after he leaves," she lied.

The wariness in his gaze didn't falter—not one bit.

"Oh? And why couldn't Magnus just convey his instructions to me directly?" He asked through narrowed eyes. "I am not a child."

"On the contrary," Magnus drawled, saving Clary from having to come up with an answer for her husband, "I beg to differ. If anything, your stubbornness and proclivity to ignore instructions regarding your well-being proves that you are very much still a child. Hence, I only felt it appropriate to keep your wife apprised so that you wouldn't neglect them."

Jace's jaw tightened. "Be that as it may, that doesn't explain why Clary was crying," he stated, noting the dried tear tracks on the princess's cheeks. Keeping his stare pinned on his wife, he pressed, "Why were you crying?"

"Oh, for God's sake." Magnus threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Clary is just being _Clary_. She's emotional when it comes to you. Leave it alone, Herondale," he snapped. When he saw Jace preparing to retort, the doctor quickly busied himself by packing up his things. "Oh my, is that the _time_? I must get going. Remember, Jace—listen to your wife. Even if she tries to make you drink a gallon of water, you _must_ obey her."

Jace shot him a dubious look.

"On second thought, belay that," Magnus hastily amended. " _Don't_ listen to her if she tries to force you into drinking a gallon of water. Drinking too much water at one go can kill you," he said seriously before turning to the quiet redhead and fixing her with a meaningful look. Clary quickly looked away from him.

"Don't forget our conversation. You need to come clean with Jace," Magnus whispered to her.

Clary gave no reply, instead choosing to feign interest with her hands. She had nice hands, she mused. Small, soft, and so unlike Jace's…it always amazed her how well her hand fit into his.

"Farewell, Herondales," Magnus announced as he walked towards the cell door. Retrieving the key from his belt—being the most credentialed physician in the kingdom awarded him with a few rare serendipitous perks in this instance, even if its monarch held a strong personal dislike for his eccentricity—he inserted it into the keyhole and twisted it to unlock the door. "Take care of yourselves. I'll be back tomorrow morning to check in on you two."

For a split second, Clary contemplated running after the young doctor and begging him to stay, if only to avoid talking to Jace about Sebastian. But her limbs betrayed her by forcing her to remain immobilized.

 _This is unfair,_ Clary thought grudgingly when Magnus was no longer in sight. She had only done what she had thought was best for Jace; she shouldn't have to be forced to relive those dreadful moments by confiding in him, regardless of what Magnus thought.

 _Oh Magnus, why did you have to bring this up? Jace will never let it go until I tell him. And once he knows, he_ will _hate me._

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" Jace's ice-cold voice cut through her brooding thoughts. "And please…don't lie to me again, Clary."

Clary tried not to appear jumpy, but in her current highly strung state, it was hard to conceal her emotions from him. Jace _knew._ Jace had known that she was lying, that she was keeping secrets from him. What was she supposed to do now? _God, why am I such a terrible liar?_

"Clary, I'm talking to you. Look at me. Please," Jace sounded closer to her this time.

Reluctantly, she raised her chin to look at him, trying her best to appear neutral. Unfortunately, her best efforts were for naught when she realized that Jace was now within touching distance of her; there was no way of escaping him. As the very same thought crossed her mind, she was overcome with surprise. She'd never thought that she would ever want to _escape_ Jace.

"I told you," she said, clearing her throat when her voice quivered nervously, "Magnus was just telling me about what I had to do to take care of you in his absence," she lied again.

Jace nodded, but from the way that his golden eyes were intently studying her face, Clary could tell that he didn't believe her. There was something about the way that he was looking at her that made her throat tighten with guilt. He looked almost… _disappointed_ with her.

"Stop staring at me like that," Clary said with a furious blush on her cheeks. Unsure of what else to do, she buried her face into his shoulder, not wanting to look at him, not sure if she could hold herself back from spilling the truth if she did. She felt so, _so_ guilty, but her heart was set against telling him. She didn't know if she could live with the possibility of him hating her.

Jace, however, refused to give up.

"I love you, Clary, and I would never push you to do anything you don't want to. You know that," he began, his tone soft. "But, sweetheart, I _need_ to know," he continued, desperation beginning to seep into his voice. "I need you to tell me what's going on—why Sebastian even changed his mind about giving me a fair fight in the arena in the first place. He was perfectly happy with the idea of slowly killing me in here before slaughtering me in the arena. I need to know what caused his sudden change in heart. I need to know what _you_ did to convince him of otherwise, because I know that there is no other way that he would have let any of this happen if you hadn't made some sort of deal with him. Tell me, Clary, please," he pleaded with her.

Clary shook her head. She could feel Jace's eyes burning a hole into her, begging for her to look at him, but she didn't want to. "Why can't you just accept it as him having a change of heart without me having played some sort of role in it?" She asked him in a choked voice, then mentally cursed herself for how obvious she was acting. If she had any hopes of convincing Jace that nothing was wrong, she had definitely ruined those chances now.

Releasing a barely audible sigh, Jace gently threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed them. "Because I know him, Clary. And more importantly than that, I know _you_ ," he told her in a knowing tone. "Please just tell me. I won't get mad at you… I promise."

Finally, Clary jerked away from him and gave him a pointed look. "Jace, you know you're just saying that. How can you even make such a promise when you don't even know if you'll be able to keep it?" She asked in a sharper tone than she had intended for, causing him to blanch.

There was an unspoken statement between them, _You already broke your promise to protect me when we were captured. What good are your promises' worth now?_ Clary didn't want to think that way, least of all now when things had already come to pass, but a part of her, however small, wasn't willing to believe in promises, even if she loved Jace and wanted to trust that his love for her would far supersede any anger or hatred he would feel about her actions. Besides, what was the point in telling him? It wasn't as if it would reverse the horrors that had befallen her. It would change nothing except likely damage their relationship. She didn't want that.

* * *

"Just tell me, Clare," Jace choked out, afraid but relentlessly determined to know the truth. "Did he— _did he_ _rape you_?" He forced the dreadful, stinging words out of his mouth.

Irrationally angered by the suggestion, Clary pulled away from him and glared. "No, Jace," was her brisk, acerbic reply. "Why would you even _think_ that?"

"Well, what the hell was I supposed to think, Clary?"

Jace didn't mean to yell—hadn't even meant to raise his voice—but Clary's response had truly enraged him. As guilty as he felt for losing his temper at his wife, he couldn't help but feel justified in his anger for her continuous evasion of his questions. He was her husband. Did he _not_ have the right to know?

"Do you think me so _stupid_? Do I really look that naïve for you to assume that I'd willingly accept this falsehood of Sebastian suddenly realizing how much of a despicable being he was and trying to make amends by sending you and Magnus down here to look after me? And not just that, he actually changed his mind about giving me an opportunity of a fair match during the games! Really, Clary, how could I not question any of this?" He asked her exasperatedly.

" _He. Didn't. Rape. Me._ " Clary enunciated each of her words clearly, her body molded into a rigid and defensive stance. "And neither did I willingly sleep with him in exchange for your fair match during the games, Jace. I would never sell myself like that."

Jace believed her this time. He could see it from her eyes that she was telling the truth—but not enough. He knew that there was more that she wasn't telling him; more that he was missing.

"Then what _did_ he do?" He asked in a lowered voice.

Clary huffed and dragged a hand over her face in defeat. "He made me kiss him," she finally disclosed before looking over at him reluctantly. Jace's face was a vacant, unreadable, closed-off look, one that he hadn't given her in a long time. Clary looked away from him. "He…he made me kiss him like I would kiss you because I egged him on. I told him that he was a lesser man than you were, _a coward_ , because he didn't even dare to face you properly. That was the deal I made—a kiss."

"That's all?" Jace asked as he cupped her face, gently stroking her eyebrows with his thumbs.

Clary seemed to force herself to meet his eyes, then nodded once. "That's all," she said quietly, with a barely discernible hint of a tremor in her voice.

 _That's all?_ Jace silently echoed the words as he continued staring at his wife for a long time.

It should have been enough, but he found himself having a hard time believing that Sebastian had made their deal that easy—that _tame_. No, he certainly was no cruel husband to wish upon a worse fate for his wife, but to believe that _that's all_? Jace couldn't believe it. He knew he would be a fool if he did. Even now, he could see it in her eyes: the same emerald green eyes that he loved were screaming at him that she was hiding something from him.

And yet, on the surface, they were also pleading with him, begging him to just…let it go.

 _Let it go. Please, just leave it be. Leave it be and hold me. Love me. Show me you love me,_ she seemed to say through her eyes.

Jace's resolve cracked. Was his need to know really that important for him to disregard her silent wishes? What was more important here: his feelings or hers?

Two Jaces scrambled for control over his voice, but in the end, the one who prevailed merely croaked, "Okay." A gush of air seemed to leave him for a moment as the weight of that one word plunged through him. Had he really just surrendered, relented to his wife's wishes?

Jace ran his hand through his hair as his face crumpled into a look of torn defeat. "Okay," he repeated, though he sounded barely sure of himself.

Clary, on the other hand, was overcome with a powerful surge of relief. Expelling a breath she didn't know she was holding, her body sagged forward…only to be supported by Jace's strong arms as he unexpectedly pulled her onto his lap. Her emerald green eyes glinted with surprise, but it quickly evaporated the moment his mouth slanted itself over hers, kissing her with a feverish desperation she had never experienced before. It was completely new and exciting and _distracting_ , she found herself forgetting why she was ever so anxious and afraid of Jace—of him discovering her secret. Anytime he was with her like this, a husband showing his affection for his wife, she could only ever feel loved and accepted and wanted. She could never deny him this, as inappropriate as their present timing and place were.

Jace, however, was a completely different story, even as he executed the role of the initiator. His need was not driven by bodily lust, rather a need to replace the haunting puzzle of Clary's secret deal with Sebastian with a…diversion. His conscience admonished this particular course of action, but Jace decided that this was one of those things of which he refused to abide by his moral sense. Clary, after all, was _his wife_. Though a crude and possessive thought, he felt he earned a right to claim her, especially now when he was unsure if another man had, possibly without his wife's conscious knowledge, _touched_ her.

So as their kisses grew in intensity, he didn't try to break it, even though his inner voice cried out to her soul: _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

"Jace," Clary sighed as she retracted her mouth from his.

Jace said nothing in response, only moving his hand to her back, where his fingers began to swiftly undo the strings on her dress. Once liberated from the confines of the garment, Clary sighed again and melted further into his touch, coincidentally causing her hair to sweep across her front and leave the entirety of her back exposed. The movement, innocent and simple as it was, caused the tension in the cell to skyrocket and shift into a completely different direction.

The instant that Jace's eyes laid upon his wife's back, he froze and his face drained of all color.

Clary, just barely able to grasp onto her lucidity, was about to ask him what was wrong—why he'd suddenly stopped—when she realized what her husband was staring at: the indelible _mark_ that had been painfully incised onto her skin, stamping her as Verlac's _property_.

As Jace severed his paralysis with a sharp intake of breath and his fingertips shakily grazed the reddish V-shaped scar marring her back, Clary was assaulted by a tide of pain and shame, but most of all, terror as she relived the moments of her deal with the Devil.

* * *

 _Sebastian didn't wait long to seize his payment. Clary could have sworn that barely a minute had even passed since the words "I'll do it" came from her mouth, then he was viciously dragging her by the arm, leading her into the chambers he had been assigned to during his stay in the palace._

 _A gentleman he certainly was not, he took pleasure in throwing the princess facedown to the floor upon their entry into his chambers, whereupon he stalked towards the lit fireplace. Clary's nerves hiked several notches higher when she spotted him wielding a long metal rod in his hand—except it was no ordinary poker, the tail-end cast into the shape of a letter 'V'._

 _Sebastian looked over his shoulder, and their eyes met. Though Clary tried her best not to, she began trembling furiously—something that amused the fiend tremendously._

 _"I always bring this with me," he said, nudging his chin in the direction of his personalised branding iron with a lascivious grin. Startlingly enough, Clary found herself unable to break their eye contact, even as he introduced the branding iron to the flames to heat it. "A curious thing to bring on one's travels, I'm sure. But you never know when you might need it. I thank you, Princess, for giving me the opportunity to use it. I would hate for it to rust before I am able to perform an adequate demonstration of its fine uses."_

 _Finally, Clary lowered her head to the ground, sickened by the tyrant's sadistically-worded monologue._ God! Help me, please! _She cried out silently, willing for a divine intervention to rescue her from plight._

 _But instead of emancipation, she heard boot-steps—ones that could only belong to Sebastian approaching her. One, two, three, four, five, six…_

 _…then a heavy weight pressed down against her, keeping her pinned to the ground. Rough fingers grasped at her garments, pulling and ripping and wresting…until finally, her pale back was assaulted by the eerily frigid air of the room._

 _Clary shut her eyes tightly, then pressed her lips together to stem the whimpering sob threatening to escape her. Tears were already leaking past her closed eyelids—but those she allowed to flow, unbidden. There was only so much she could do to try and be brave in her situation. She was doing this for Jace—she wouldn't take it back for that reason alone—but God, she was terrified!_

 _"Shh, Clarissa…" He cooed, though his insistent weight against her frame betrayed his faux concern for her mental state. "It'll be quick…I promise. Just…_ breathe _…"_

 _Clary sucked in all the air she could and held it—_

 _Then she released it in a single bloodcurdling scream as the hot branding iron met the center of her back, stabbing her right in between her shoulder blades._

 _In all her life, she had never felt pain more intense, more excruciating than in that very moment. She could feel her heart pounding—lurching violently against her chest—as the pain drove her to the brink of insanity. JACE! JACE! JACE! HELP ME! "JACE!"_

 _"HE ISN'T COMING TO SAVE YOU!" Sebastian countered, maddened by the mere mention of the gladiator's name. To punish her for her slight, he pressed the iron harder against her back, deepening the burn. "YELL HIS NAME AGAIN—I DARE YOU! I DARE YOU!"_

 _"NO, PLEASE," Clary begged, as black tinged the edges of her vision. "Please…stop…"_

 _It seemed like centuries had passed when finally, Sebastian withdrew the red-hot poker from Clary's back, leaving her in a shocked and dazed state of pain. Convulsions rippled through her body in intermittent bursts, yet Sebastian didn't care—the man had no capacity to care for another. He was, however, wholly fascinated, intrigued even, by the freshly imprinted mark._

 _"Beautiful," he murmured. Tracing it with his finger, he let out a deep belly laugh, the way only a pure sadist could. "Beautiful!" He guffawed._

 _"Oh, Clarissa," he continued, lifting her head just enough to meet his gaze. Clary felt weak, the pain steering her towards unconsciousness, but she was still aware enough of her surroundings—aware of Sebastian's cruel, unsympathetic grin. "If only you could view this remarkably beautiful gift… I know it hurts, but you see why it's necessary, don't you? It's because you're_ mine. _And even if by some small measure of luck that your scoundrel of a husband manages to kill me in the arena, you will always bear a permanent reminder of me… You will always have me_ etched _onto your skin. No matter what happens, you will never be rid of me…"_

 _To make his point, he darted out his tongue and licked the shell of her ear before nibbling roughly on her earlobe—though, instead of bringing her pleasure, the gesture only made the nauseating coil in her stomach grow. Clary wanted to squirm away from him but pain made it impossible for her to move. Trying only caused more pain._

 _"Imagine what your precious_ Jace _will say then!" Sebastian added gleefully. "You're foolish if you think that he will value you above his own pride. No, as much as he claims to_ love _you, he'll never look at you the same way again. Not while you bear my_ mark _…"_

* * *

Clary was unceremoniously swept back to the present when Jace swore and swiftly retracted his hand from her back. She flinched as a cold draft swept over her bare skin, replacing her husband's warm touch. There were so many emotions that flooded through her, by and large her shame and fear of Jace's rejection.

Could it be true? Could Sebastian have been true about his assertions regarding Jace? Could pride mean more to him than his own love for her? Could he… _Did_ he hate her? None of her questions transferred into any actual speech, and likewise, Jace was stone-cold silent.

He stared down at his hands, which were shaking, a pained expression on his own face. Even though he'd known of Sebastian's ruthless capacity, he still couldn't believe the lengths that the man—no, _monster_ had gone through to hurt Clary. He could accept Sebastian torturing him…but his wife? What was her crime, besides marrying him, to justify such a punishment? He was contradicting himself, but God, why did he have to do _that_ to her?

"He _branded_ you?" He finally rasped out in an agonized voice.

Instinctively, Clary placed her hand on his shoulder, wanting to console him, even if there was a possibility that he might turn her away. "Jace, it's—I'm not…" She stammered as she tried to find the right words to say to him. "I'm okay, Jace." He flinched away from her disbelievingly. "It…it doesn't hurt as much anymore…"

As far-fetched as it sounded, it was the truth. Whatever medicinal herb or poultice Magnus had used to treat her 'wound' had made the agonizing burn fade into no more than a dull throb. As long as she didn't think on it, the pain barely even existed anymore.

"Jace, please. It's okay."

" _It's_ _okay_?" He finally looked at her, his face seemingly even paler than before. By the look in his eyes, she could tell that he was appalled, distraught even, by her response. "For heaven's sake, Clary! How can you say that? It isn't okay! None of this is okay! How can you—" Turning away from her, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He was breathing heavily, thoughts of anger, guilt and hatred—mostly aimed at himself—engulfing him.

 _I've_ _failed again,_ Jace thought in despair. He had failed in his duty to protect his wife. Oh, why couldn't he have done at least _one_ thing right? As if Clary hadn't endured enough, suffered enough at her father's hands… Now, because of him, she would be forced to carry a permanent reminder of Sebastian Verlac, a reminder of how he had been so utterly obsessed with her to the brink of mutilating her skin with his name. _God, how it must have hurt her!_

Before he even realized it, hot streaks of tears were streaming down his cheeks. He pressed his hands against his face, his chest visibly shaking as he fought to rein in a sob.

"Jace," Clary's voice pleaded with him again. "It's okay…"

There it was again, that abhorrent phrase: _It's okay._ How could she say that? How could she believe that, to deem such a cruel act as 'okay'? Whichever way Jace looked at it, he could never accept it as 'okay'. It wasn't just because of the reminder of his failure either; no one should have the right to treat another being as if she were his property. Jace's experiences as a slave had taught him that: it just wasn't right.

 _If only I had waited to ask her to marry me after the games…_ after _Valentine and Sebastian were no longer threats…then I would have been able to protect her from ever having to face such a twisted fate,_ he realized with a clenched jaw. _It's all my fault. My pride and selfishness led me to ask Clary to marry me. My brashness led to us being caught. And if it weren't for me, Clary would have never felt the necessity to bargain with Sebastian. She…she would have been safe._

"Jace—"

"You shouldn't have married me, Clary," Jace cut her off in a low, quiet voice. He was facing away from her, his expression cold and aloof, although he was feeling anything but. It ached terribly, the feeling of guilt, shame and self-loathing festering inside of him. He had thought that such feelings which he had only ever felt in relation to his parents' deaths could never be replicated to such a degree, could never suffocate him with their overpowering presence, but they were. It occurred to him, belatedly, how much he was hurting Clary for acting like this—a selfish coward, unable to even face his wife despite what _he_ had allowed to happen to her—but how could he take any of those words back when they were true?

Clary's hand fell from his shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief. " _What?_ " The single word, barely whispered, was laced with an inexplicable amount of hurt that Clary felt as if she would combust.

"You shouldn't have married me," Jace repeated, still refusing to meet her eyes.

Clary clutched at her heaving chest; the emotional betrayal was cutting through her like a rusty, poison-laced blade. She had known— _expected_ Jace's anger, his resentment, and to some degree, his self-blame…but she had not counted on such a _blatant_ rejection. How else was she supposed to interpret his declaration, especially when he had delivered it with such regret?

Because at that very moment, that was the emotion she felt from him the strongest: regret. He _regretted_ taking her as his wife. Did that also mean that he regretted loving her? Clary didn't want to believe it, but the heartbreak she was reeling from was forcing her to consider the latter—and that really, _really_ hurt. After all they had gone through, the sacrifices they had made for each other, how could he throw all of that back in her face?

Sebastian, dared she think it, was _right_ , after all. It was only after Jace had seen her mark that he had expressed his regret of their marriage. He wouldn't even look at her anymore because he was _disgusted_ with her—not that she could blame him entirely for it; she was disgusted with herself too. But wasn't Jace supposed to be better than that? Was he not supposed to value her heart over her body, the way he had claimed his love for her was?

Clary drew in a deep breath and sucked back the impending tears. While her first reaction had been despair, the emotion that followed next was not nearly so self-contained. It began, a soft spark of fire in her chest, that quickly grew into an inferno that scorched her veins—rage.

White-hot rage consumed her, obliterating the vestiges of self-piteous desperation and anguish that had once filled her. Honestly, who _cared_ about how revolting she looked with Sebastian's mark burned onto her back? How could _he_ , the only man she had entrusted her heart with, whom she believed in so much that she would take an oath of marriage for him, _betray_ her by proving Sebastian right—by choosing now of all times to act so _shallow_?

 _I'm better than this. I deserve better than this,_ Clary chanted in her head. _If he's going to toss our marriage aside, then he should at least have the moral decency to look me in the eye_ and _say it instead of hiding from me like a coward. I'll show him. I'll_ show _him._

Even as that impulsive thought crossed her mind, it still shocked her—the _both_ of them—when Clary suddenly yanked Jace by the front of his tunic and forced him to face her, her emerald green eyes blazing with ire.

" _How dare you?_ How dare you say that?" She demanded, her voice raised to the point of shouting. Jace lifted his head and met her gaze with a wince. Clary glared into his golden eyes, hating the look he was giving her: it was remorse and guilt, mixed with no small amount of sadness. Her anger grew. What right did he have to be upset when _he_ was the one hurting _her_?

"I have never regretted you—never regretted marrying you!" She continued her tirade as she fisted his tunic in her hand, with more than adequate pressure to rip it if she wanted to. "And _now_ ," she let out a mirthless laugh, "you're telling me otherwise? Just because you've seen how revolting I look with Sebastian's mark permanently burned onto my back?"

Jace's golden eyes widened as if he had been slapped. "Clary, no. Listen to me—"

"No, you listen!" She cut him off, her teeth clenched and heart twisting with the sting of betrayal. "How could _you_? After everything we've been through together? You told me—you _promised_ me we were going to get through this! You said that if you were to go down, you wanted to do it as my husband, who fought for me, who fought for _us_! And now that I've done the same for you, you're saying that I shouldn't have married you? _I shouldn't have married you?_ God, Jace! I can't even believe you anymore!"

Suddenly weary, she released her grip on his tunic and turned away from him. "Did…" Her breath hitched as the tears finally fell. "Did it take all this…for Sebastian to brand me for you to realize that you didn't really love me after all?"

Her voice was a barely audible whisper by then, but Jace could hear her question clearly. He opened his mouth, ready to speak—ready to refute everything that his wife had misunderstood about him—but at that very moment, she began to break.

Her silent tears evolved into loud, gut-wrenching sobs, and her chest started to convulse so violently that Jace worried she would really disintegrate before his very eyes. He reached out to touch her, but as if she knew what he was trying to do, she shrugged him off and curled up against the floor, facing away from him.

"Clary…"

" _Don't—touch—me._ " The three words were staggered but delivered with such a cold and definite tone that Jace could feel his heart shattering along with hers.

 _Stupid,_ he berated himself. _How could I have been so stupid? I should have been comforting her…instead I made her believe that our marriage was a mistake…that I don't love her._ Jace buried his face into his hands. _But I do! I DO LOVE HER!_

 _Then tell her!_ A voice, suspiciously like his mother's, echoed in his head.

"Sweetheart," The endearment left his mouth before he could even think. "I didn't mean it that way. Of course I love you," he said softly, his voice a gentle caress.

He attempted to lace their fingers together but she ripped her hand out his grip and swatted it away angrily, her sobs growing louder. It was rejection more painful than any physical attack he had ever experienced before, but Jace knew he deserved it and more.

He couldn't give up though. If this was his last night with his wife, then he needed to let her know exactly how he felt about her: that his only regret was not in loving her or marrying her, but of how he had misjudged the _timing_ of their union.

"Honey," he called to her, the softest he had ever spoken, "I didn't mean it like that. I don't regret you, _ever._ I don't regret falling in love with you. I don't regret marrying you. And especially not over some blasted mark that was forced onto you. I just… I only meant that—" He groaned and slammed his head backwards against the wall, selfishly hoping that the physical pain would eliminate the emotional agony he was feeling at the moment.

"I meant that you shouldn't have married me because…if you hadn't, then you wouldn't have been caught in this mess with me. You wouldn't have to make that deal with Sebastian for me. You would have been _safe_ …" He choked back a rising sob. "That's all I ever want: it's for you to be safe," he repeated.

Clary finally turned towards him. "Do you really believe that?" She asked him hoarsely. "If we hadn't married each other, do you really think I would be safe from all this? From my father? From Sebastian?"

"I…I was selfish," was Jace's evasive answer. "I only thought about what I wanted. You were right, Clary. The night I asked you to marry me, I did it because I wanted you to belong to me— _only to me_ and not Sebastian. I was so set on the idea that I didn't think about the consequences of our actions, of us marrying each other. I didn't think that I would be condemning you to _this_ —that you would be punished because of me. _I didn't think_ ," he finished angrily.

Clary shook her head disbelievingly as she sat up to confront him. "You're not answering my question," she told him in a steely voice. "I asked you if you thought I would have been safe from Sebastian and my father if we hadn't married. None of those other things you just spouted are even relevant—"

"They are relevant, Clary," Jace insisted. "Don't you see? Don't you realize how much I've endangered you by asking you to marry me?"

"You're impossible," she hissed back. "How could you ever justify marrying me based on an act of selfishness? If you'd wanted me so badly, you would have taken me even _without_ having to marry me." Jace immediately blanched at the implication—the very idea of rape was so deeply abhorrent to him, because of what had happened to his mother. The idea of him doing _it_ to another woman made him feel sick to his stomach. He would _never_. "But you didn't. You married me, because you _honored_ me. How can that ever be considered selfish, Jace?"

"I…"

"More to the point, I think it bears reminding that no one forced me into anything. I married you because I made a conscious decision—plain and simple. I knew it wasn't going to be easy for either of us. But I still agreed to marry you anyway because I had faith in us—in _you_. I've never doubted you, or of your ability to protect me. And for the love of God, _Jace_! If you'd just open your eyes, you'd see that you haven't broken your promise to me to do just that! You did all you could have done—some other things are far beyond your control. I don't blame you for that."

Jace tried protesting but she sternly held her hand up to cut him off. "Humor me again, Jace. What do you think would have happened if you hadn't married me? If you hadn't been in our chambers that night?" She asked him through narrowed eyes.

"We wouldn't have been caught. You wouldn't be stuck with dealing with _my_ mess—"

"Right, again with the same olddrivel about how I wouldn't be caught in your mess," she snapped. "But guess what, Jace? If you hadn't been there with me that night, then you wouldn't have been able to protect me from Sebastian when he came into my room to find me! And then what? I would have been raped, Jace! _Raped_ —"

It shouldn't have taken him to so long to comprehend the root of Clary's distress, but finally, Jace saw. It wasn't so much of even the possibility of rape if circumstances had been different that actually perturbed her, but it was _him_ _blaming their marriage_ for their afflictions that did it.

 _After all we've been through…_ The words echoed in his head.

"I don't care that I'm in this mess," Clary said softly. "This… _this_ is worth it, Jace. This was worth everything because I got to spend the last two months with you. You made me realize it yourself…that I would rather be married you for as short amount of time as possible than to have be forced into a marriage with Sebastian for life. The fact of the matter is, Jace, if it weren't for you, I would've never found the courage or the will to stand my ground against Valentine or Sebastian. _You_ were the one who made me into a stronger person—and that's exactly why I don't regret you."

Jace looked up at her, tears shining visibly in his own eyes. "When I married you, I took a vow… _for better or for worse_ …" Clary said, brushing a stray tear away from his face. "Just because we're in this mess now, it doesn't mean that I'm going to turn my back on you and abandon you. Even now, Jace, _I don't regret you_."

That was all it took for Jace to cave in.

Lifting her onto his lap, he crushed her body to his, wanting no more of the disagreements, of the distance between them. No, their marriage wasn't to blame, he decided. It was people with wicked intentions, like Valentine and Sebastian, who were culpable of the blame for injustices committed against them. Their marriage was a beautiful thing, Jace knew. He was— _they were_ blessed with so much happiness, became so much closer because of it.

And his love for Clary… It was nothing short of expansive. He could never tire of loving her, of adoring her. And even though he could never rejoice in the sacrifice she made for him— _God bless her—_ he couldn't deny that he loved her even more because of it.

"I'm sorry," Jace murmured, his voice hoarse with regret. The way he was breathing, slightly choked and out of breath, made her realize that he was crying, too. "I'm so sorry, Clary. I never meant to hurt you like that. I love you. I love you so much. I'm sorry. I don't regret you. I don't regret you."

His arms were tight around her, but Clary relished in the way she fit perfectly in his embrace. These arms made her feel safe. These arms were her _home_.

Pulling away from him just a little, Clary crashed her lips to Jace's. He kissed her back, alternating between hard and rough pecks to gentle and soft caresses. Somewhere along the way, they both realized that the kiss felt different—it was driven by passion, yet it was nothing bordering on raw desire, only a desire to heal and to fix the tattered threads lying between them.

 _Together,_ Jace thought. They would make it out of this storm together.

Desperately grabbing at his blond curls, Clary deepened their kiss in a manner that could only be described as searing. No words were spoken, but they understood the underlying importance of it all. They were almost out of time, and they needed this one moment—this one memory—to hold onto and to cherish before everything was lost.

Finally, silence reigned once more as the two—husband and wife—lay together in each other's arms, neither unable to fathom the thought of extricating themselves from each other. In the embers of the late night, they were both relieved and happy, _thankful_ for all they had been blessed with in their short time together. But just barely buried beneath the surface of their beating hearts, fear and grief remained, as real as every other emotion they'd ever dared to feel.

"I love you, Clary," Jace whispered, his words soft and secret-like. Even then, Clary felt the weight of each word, the depth of her husband's assurance and promise. Come what may, she— _they_ would always have this, a sacred bond of matrimonial love and fidelity that no one, save God, could take away from them.

"As I love you, Jace. I'm yours. Always," she whispered back as her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing slowly evened out.

"Always," Jace repeated as his own eyelids began to slowly droop.

Before long, the couple drifted off into a deep, well-rested sleep, feeling nevermore peaceful as they remained in closeness, united as one.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _ **Personally, this has always been one of my favorite chapters to write (but a complete pain to edit) because we see Clary and Jace confronting yet another huge challenge in their relationship, only to emerge stronger in the end.**_

 ** _Old readers, as you can see, the essence of this chapter is very much the same, but I sorta edited almost every line and rewrote entire paragraphs. That's why it took so long. Also, I added in the flashback scene with Clary and Sebastian. Previously the details were narrated in Clary's POV, but I decided to write out the scene in a flashback instead. I know it's still kinda messy cos the POVs keep switching between Clary and Jace, but I hoped it wasn't too distracting/annoying to read. I felt that addressing their thoughts/emotions at the various points were important, so I kept with it._**

 _ **That said, for my new readers, how many of you saw the whole 'branding' thing coming? Pretty twisted, huh? At this rate, it's kinda hard to tell who is more sadistic: Valentine or Sebastian?**_

 _ **SO CLOSE TO THE END! We've got 2 chapters left, then the epilogue. Action in next chapter.**_ _ **Please keep the reviews coming!**_

 _ **Until next time,**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	23. Chapter 21: Farewell and Welcome

_**Author's Note: UPDATE! Thanks for all the sweet reviews last chapter! I hope you guys are having a nice day/night wherever you are :)**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 21: FAREWELL AND WELCOME**

 **December 30, 508 _(part I)_**

Dawn came with an ominous and palpable tension in the air. Jace, having lain awake for hours before the hour of first light even came, let out a breathy sigh as he watched his sleeping wife, clad in only his shirt and a light petticoat, after the events of the night before. Her discarded dress was draped over the lower half of her body, like a makeshift blanket, to provide her with additional warmth and decency. He himself was wearing only his trousers, his chest bare and exposed to the slight chill that seemed to constantly linger in the underground prisons.

Jace hesitated, knowing that he should probably wake Clary soon and ensure that they were both adequately dressed before any of Sebastian or Valentine's men decided to make their unceremonious entrance. But a part of him was strongly opposed against the idea of having to wake his wife and ending whatever precious dream was causing her to wear that serene smile on her face. There would be little to no opportunity for smiles today, and he wanted Clary to be able to smile for as long as possible, even if it were only because of a dream.

Reaching out, he moved the strand of hair out of Clary's face, then grazed her cheek with feather-like gentleness. In a way, waking up next to her this morning was a bittersweet moment; he was blessed to greet a new day to the sight of the woman he loved, but was saddled with the gloomy possibility that this could be the last time he would ever wake up next to her like this.

 _I'm sorry, my love. So sorry that my actions have caused you hurt…so sorry that I can't protect you better,_ he could only afford to think of the words, not say them aloud lest he started crying. _But thank you, Clary. Thank you for being the most loyal and loving wife I could ever ask for. Thank you for being with me, despite everything…for what you've done to protect me. Thank you, my beloved…_

Jace cleared his throat and raised his watery eyes to the ceiling as he tried to blink back tears. The last thing he wanted was for Clary to suddenly wake up and find him crying, and then crying herself because of him. There was a time for him to succumb to his feelings, but now wasn't that time. Clary had already been burdened with enough fears of his pending fate; for now, he needed to project calm and strong, if only for her sake. He would do that much for her.

He _owed_ her that much at least.

After several minutes of trying to get his emotions under control, Jace turned towards his wife and gently shook her shoulder. "Clary…wake up, Clary," he softly coaxed her.

Clary made a quiet whining noise but begrudgingly complied, blinking her emerald green eyes several times before they actually stayed open. She squinted at him, still in a somewhat sleepy stupor, but lucid enough to greet him, "Morning."

"Morning, sweetheart," Jace returned with a smile. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"S'okay," she mumbled. "Do we have time?"

Jace frowned, not quite sure what she meant by the question before realizing she had actually meant: _How much time do we have before they come to take us away from each other?_

His throat closed, but he forced himself to remain steady when he replied, "I'm not sure. But we best get ready quickly. I don't want them to catch us off our guard."

"Mm," Clary agreed before sitting up and stretching lethargically.

Jace sat up with a bit more grace, feeling sympathetic towards his wife, but overall submissive to the reality of their ordeal. Positioning himself so that he was blocking Clary from the view of the doorway, he grabbed her dress and hastily replaced the shirt she was wearing with it. Clary helped him, tugging it on properly over herself while Jace put on his shirt.

Once they were clothed, he helped her to her feet, this time making sure that her back was to his front instead. Although he quite appreciated how Clary's dresses complemented her beauty, he also resented the fact that they were a tedious chore for her to put on, often requiring the help of another person—usually her handmaidens—to lace the strings adorning the back. If they somehow managed to walk out of this trial unscathed, he would have to see Isabelle and talk her into replacing Clary's current wardrobe with clothes that were of a more practical nature while retaining their refined modesty. He was certain that his wife would appreciate the same.

Suppressing his chuckle at the unexpected direction of his thoughts, Jace allowed himself a small, carefree smile as his fingertips glided over the creamy skin of Clary's back, mesmerized despite his annoyance at the exquisite crisscross pattern the strings made with their ascension. But true to form, the smile slipped from his face the exact moment his golden eyes fell upon the mark that Sebastian had unjustly left on Clary's back, his anger stirring at the mere sight of it.

Fleetingly abandoning his task with the strings, he gingerly touched the scar with his callused fingertips, wishing futilely that his touch could make the irreparable damage go away.

 _It should have never even come to this,_ he thought as he inhaled a deep breath through his nose, trying and fumbling to keep his anger at bay. Clary should have never been inflicted by such lasting repercussions, just because she had fallen in love with him. Even if it was misconstrued to be an act of treason, a punishment such as this, he felt, was going too far.

 _Damn Sebastard,_ he silently cursed. Thoughts of the dream he had of his mother, imploring him to forgive his enemies, to not kill out of hatred or revenge, filled him with a deep-shattering sense of conflict. His first instinct was to push her voice out of his mind, to let his anger dictate his actions, to persuade himself that his actions were justified, his rage was justified…

But he also felt _wrong_. Anger had always been such a fleeting emotion, he realized, and revenge served no other purpose than to feed that temporary rage. In the end, the only other person who would suffer from the effects of his actions was _him_ —could he live with himself knowing that he had murdered his enemy in cold blood? His enemy might have deserved it for all the sufferings he had imposed on his victims, Jace and Clary included, but the Herondale son didn't want to tarnish his mother's memory by turning his back on her teachings and becoming the person he was supposed to be fighting against. He wanted to be better than that, to be a man she could be proud of, even if she was no longer there to witness it.

Jace closed his eyes and exhaled a breath, this time feeling his anger abate as a semblance of peace washed over him. _I can do this,_ he thought. He could kill Sebastian and Valentine, not out of revenge, but out of a sense of _justice_. Admittedly, there was a fine line between the two, a mere difference of intention, but sometimes, he acquiesced, that was the only thing that mattered. God knew he didn't need to broadcast his objectives to the world; it sufficed that he knew his own heart, and that he walked out of that arena with that same heart intact.

 _I can do this,_ Jace thought again, his resolve renewed. Despite what surprises Sebastian and Valentine threw at him, he would rise up to their challenges and confront them with grace. It would be a hard battle, none more so than the battle he knew would be waging within _himself_ , but he could do it. Justice over revenge, light over darkness… But could he _forgive_ his enemies? That was another conundrum, one he wasn't ready to face just yet. He only hoped that he would know when the time came and be strong enough to make the right choice.

As Clary began to tremble self-consciously from his lingering touch, Jace bent down and pressed a soft, feather-light kiss onto the scar, silently reassuring her that she was still beautiful to him, that his love for her had not waned regardless of the damage done to her. She shuddered a little from the feeling of his lips against her sensitive skin, but appeared visibly relieved when his deft fingers returned to their original task.

As soon as he was done, Jace guided Clary to turn around so that she was facing him. His hands were on her shoulders, cupping them gently, while her arms were now draped lightly around his waist. He gently stroked her cheek with his knuckles, and she looked up at him, her wide emerald green eyes glazed over with tears. He bent down and kissed her, their mouths closed, but the kiss tender and long. Their lips hardly moved, only pressed themselves against each other with a gentle, soothing pressure.

When they finally broke apart, Jace planted another quick, chaste kiss on his wife's lips, then wordlessly sat down on the floor. He reached for his boots and yanked them onto his bare feet while his heart continued to pound heavily in his chest.

Just as he was about to tie the bootlaces, Clary suddenly knelt down in front of him and stilled his movements with a delicate brush of her hand. Then, just as he had done for her, she took her time to do up his bootlaces. He sat back on his elbows and watched her, admiring the features of her beautiful face, her eyebrows as they knitted together in unmitigated concentration, as if she were afraid that she would fail him by not tying his bootlaces properly.

At that, he couldn't help but smile a little to himself, appreciating the tiny quirks about his wife that made him fall in love with her. At times like these, he saw glimpses of his own mother in her—a strong, compassionate woman who loved him unconditionally, who chose to remain by his side despite the pain it had brought her. She was his reason for fighting, and he thanked God fervently for bringing them together when He did…for opening his eyes to see that there was more to his fight than just a worldly game of revenge; that there was a _greater good_ , but only if he cared enough to look beyond the outward appearances of most things.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Jace murmured to his wife lovingly when she sat back on her heels and inspected her work.

Clary looked up at him with a tearful smile, before reaching for both his hands in hers and planting a long, tender kiss on the back of each hand. It was a small but meaningful gesture, enough to make Jace's heart twinge with a painful realization of how akin their situation was to a wife bidding her husband 'farewell' as he readied himself to leave home for war.

 _It_ is _going to be war_ , his conscience whispered to him. Standing at two opposing sides of the battlefield, Jace and Sebastian would fight it out for their own separate causes: Sebastian for his own personal gain and satisfaction, and Jace for his freedom, his… _redemption_.

"Don't cry, my sweet love," he cooed as several stray tears slid down Clary's cheeks. Gently prying his hands away from hers, he used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away her tears. "No more tears, love. We've both cried enough last night."

After a pause, Jace said, "Come here," he patted the space on his lap. "Let me hold you."

Clary didn't protest when he lifted her onto his lap and fitted her snugly into his embrace, although it didn't escape his notice how she winced and hissed softly from the movement, then clutched at her stomach as if she were in pain. Without a word, he splayed his hand across her lower abdomen, then began rubbing it in slow and tender circles, hoping that the gesture would help alleviate her physical discomfort.

And just like everything Jace did, Clary couldn't help but watch his rhythmic motions with rapt attention. In spite of their current circumstances, she couldn't help but imagine herself and Jace in a similar position, perhaps a year or several more from now, where they would be living in happier, more peaceful times, where she would be round and full with their child. It was a thought she had never expected herself to entertain considering her very young age, but she supposed that being married and deeply in love warranted those thoughts. She knew that given the chance, the both of them would turn out to be quite the pair of overprotective parents, Jace probably more so with his turbulent history as a gladiator.

 _If only…_

If only they could escape into an alternate dimension where everything was reasonably perfect…one where her mother was still alive, where her father was a completely different man who loved her and treated her like his little princess, having no grudges against the family that called themselves the Herondales. Certainly, anything else was more desirable than the constantly treacherous conditions they lived in now.

 _This is the life that was decided for you. It isn't easy, but it is what it is. Be grateful,_ a voice that reminded her of her mother's whispered in her mind. So sobering was this sudden perspective that Clary actually paused to reconsider all that she had pondered before.

Certainly, dreams and fantasies were wonderful musings, but they were, ultimately, ineffective and nugatory. Dreams cannot alter the reality that had already come to pass, so one could only hope to forge a better future through acceptance and making the best of what one had.

And although Clary had endured her hefty share of hardship and grief, she was indeed grateful for the few but substantial blessings she had. She was grateful for her loving mother, short as a time she had her, who had taught her and Jon the value of empathy and compassion, of love. She was grateful for her brother, who loved her and protected her where their father had failed. She was grateful for her friends, so fiercely loyal and kind, and who enriched her life through their simple devotion and friendship. She was grateful for Jace, the broken but benevolent gladiator who loved her and cherished her despite her many scars.

"Where has my beautiful redhead disappeared to again?" Jace's gentle voice broke her out of her wistful musings.

Clary blushed, embarrassed to have been caught drifting in her own mind. "Nowhere. I'm right here sitting on your lap," she deviously replied.

Jace chuckled. "Aren't you a smart one?" He remarked with an affectionate crinkle in his eyes. "Tell me," he implored her.

Clary leaned forward and kissed his slightly pouty lips. "I was thinking of all the things—the _people_ who I am grateful for," she said. "My mother, Jon, our friends…and _you_."

Jace smiled. "I'm grateful for them, too. And you," he returned, his tone firm and laced with every ounce of sincerity. "I love you, Clary Herondale."

"I love you, Jace Herondale."

They both exchanged smiles at their heartfelt declarations before Jace finally closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. Clary sighed in contentment and welcomed the warm pressure of his mouth against hers.

However, it all ended too soon by the dramatic entrance of Magnus Bane, the self-proclaimed doctor of magnificence. Making a show of shielding his eyes with one arm, he balanced his hold on the two-tiered silver container of food he had procured from _Taki's_ while exclaiming loudly: "For the love of God—Herondales, please! I do not need to witness the possible making of your offspring!"

Clary and Jace reluctantly broke their kiss and sighed exasperatedly in unison.

"How _one person_ can be cursed with such ill timing is beyond my ability to comprehend," Clary muttered, dropping her head into the crook of her husband's neck.

Jace kissed the crown of her forehead but said nothing to encourage her response. Glancing at the flamboyant doctor, he grimaced at the sight of his new ensemble: a bright yellow suit embellished with an odd array of sparkle-trimmed patterns.

"I would say that you're a sight for sore eyes, but I'm afraid that I would be making a very literal mistake. Alas, the sight of you is a complete eyesore," he said in a dry tone.

Magnus finally dropped his arm from his face and grinned. "You're just jealous that you can't pull off something as amazing as this," he said, gesturing to himself.

"Nor do I want to," Jace retorted.

Magnus rolled his eyes. "At times like this, I find myself questioning the innate goodness of my heart. Why, oh _why_ ," he exclaimed dramatically, "do I go to such lengths to deliver breakfast to people who hardly appreciate me?"

At the mention of food, Clary quickly brightened up and disengaged herself from her husband. "Oh Magnus, of course we appreciate you," she assured him with a sweet smile as she leaped to her feet. "Jace only meant it in jest. And good morning, dear friend."

"Good morning to you, too, Biscuit," Magnus replied amusedly as he passed her the canister of food. "I'm glad to see you're enthusiastic about breakfast this morning."

"I'm starved," she told him earnestly, the exact same way Jace had responded to Magnus's offer of food last night.

"So I see," was his pleased reply. Then in a more serious tone, he said, "As glad as I am to see your improved appetite, I'm afraid that haste is a necessity this morning. Sebastian will be here with his guards within the hour…or so he says. I reckon it would be much sooner if the foul mood he was sporting earlier is anything to go by."

Jace could hardly suppress his eye-roll at the thought of Sebastian's 'foul mood'— _What a complete egotistical, self-entitled maniac…does he honestly think that the world revolved around him and his malicious whims?_ "Did he say anything else?" He enquired tersely.

Magnus shook his head. "No. Eat," he instructed.

Deciding that it was pointless to prod any further, Jace begrudgingly let the matter drop as Clary removed the lids on the containers. One of them contained chicken soup, similar to the one they had yesterday, while the other held two loaves of white-rye sourdough bread…like the ones Clary bought for them from _Taki's_ on the first day they met.

Jace smiled a little at the memory—it seemed like an entire lifetime ago! Then, they had been two strangers, wary and suspicious of each other, and yet also irrefutably curious and oh-so-obliviously attracted to one another. Now, they were _more_ , husband and wife, a pair of soulmates who loved each other more than they had ever dreamed possible. But…

Amidst the wistfulness, he couldn't help but recognize the deliciously morbid irony that the bread now represented. Their first meal…and possibly their _last_ one together? The very thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Was it all a sign, that everything he shared with Clary, every single moment, was coming full circle?

As if sensing where her husband's thoughts had gone flying to, Clary gave his hand a gentle squeeze, the pressure enough to bring him back to reality—to the _present_.

He gave her a small smile, but whether it was to reassure her or himself he wasn't sure. Looking at the sourdough bread now made him feel a tad bit nauseous, but he swallowed back his bile and bit into the bread anyway, knowing that he needed the energy to sustain himself in his match against Sebastian later.

"How was your night?" Magnus began in a conversational tone.

"Making small talk, Magnus? You're not actually that bored, are you?" Jace raised an eyebrow at him as he took a relatively huge bite out of his bread.

The glittery man rolled his eyes and huffed. "Amuse me, will you?"

"You know what you almost walked in on—"

"Jace!" Clary slapped his arm, looking flushed and more than a little appalled.

Fortunately, Jace had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry," he murmured to his wife.

"I wasn't talking about _that_ ," Magnus cut in, sounding annoyed. His eyes shot to Clary, and for a split second, she caught a trace of hesitation, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. Then: "Did Biscuit tell you—"

"—About what that filthy _cretin_ did to her?" Jace completed the sentence, his jaw clenching. As Sebastian's mark unwittingly flashed behind his eyelids, like a red flag taunting an angry bull, he felt himself grow inflamed with rage. "Yes. She did," he answered in clipped tones.

Clary gaped at the both of them. "You know, I'm right _here._ You don't have to act as if I'm not," she muttered in an exasperated tone. "Besides," she said, lowering her voice as she addressed Magnus directly, "I didn't have much of a choice. Jace saw it first—"

"You shouldn't have tried to hide it from me in the first place," the gladiator muttered with a tinge of bitterness in his tone.

"I know, I know! Look, I _am_ sorry, all right?" Clary relented as she squeezed her husband's hand gently. The hard edges of his golden eyes almost instantly softened from the gesture. "I'm sorry," she repeated in a softer voice.

Jace nodded.

"How are you feeling, Clary?" Magnus asked in an attempt to defuse the tension between the couple. It was evident that despite having worked through their conflicts last night, the branding incident was still an extremely sensitive issue.

"Much better," she answered with a tight smile. "Your medicine worked wonders. Thank you, Magnus."

The young doctor sighed. "I wish I could do more for you," he said, not quite able to refrain from alluding to the subject matter, as touchy as it was. For as long as he'd known her, Magnus Bane had always, and would always, care for Clary Morgenstern-Herondale.

"You've already done your best. You're not a warlock, Magnus," Clary tried to crack a joke, though it came across as rather flat. "Well, at least it's nowhere visible," she finally decided.

Jace sighed, breaking his own silence. "If it's all the same to you, you should have never had to go through with it in the first place," he said quietly.

"What's done is done," Magnus said. "I apologize. I didn't bring the matter up to upset you, Jace," He turned to Clary after, "Likewise, I'm not probing with the intention of making you relive your worst moments, Clary. But we're living in crucial times. As a friend who cares, I only wanted to make sure that everything worth knowing is out in the open. What Sebastian did was beyond _cruel_ ," His eyes lit up with unmistakeable anger, "He deserves to be punished for his actions. I can't avenge you, Clary…but Jace can."

Clary's eyes widened. "But I don't want to be avenged," she said in a surprisingly clear tone. She felt Jace's body stiffen, and it took her all of her strength to face him without crumbling. "Nothing can excuse Sebastian's actions…I'm not trying to defend him. But I don't want you to kill him out of revenge. Think of what it would cost _you_ ," she implored him.

Jace had thought of it—many, _many_ times. More than anything, he wanted to honor both his mother and his wife, to stay the course that he knew was right, but he also couldn't deny the anger he felt, which was honestly, the strongest emotion currently boiling at the surface.

He inhaled a deep, cleansing breath, and released it together with his mercurial rage. "Don't worry about that right now," he finally said. Then noting her worried expression, he forced a smile onto his face and rubbed her back slowly. "Eat, Clary," he added softly.

Averting her eyes from both men, Clary kept mum while she polished off the last of her bread, but with less enthusiasm this time.

The sight of his subdued wife filled Jace's heart with immense worry. If he knew her as well as he believed he did, then he was almost absolutely certain that Clary was worried about _him_. On one hand, she didn't want him to die, but on the other, she didn't want him to kill their enemy out of retaliation for what he had done to them both. It was the mother of ironies, and Jace was once again reminded of how everything about the choices he would have to make in the near future required him to walk a fine line between justice and revenge—

That was, assuming if the odds came to favor him. It could easily go the other way since Sebastian had an equal chance of winning, too. And if he did…then Jace could only pray that Clary would not go off the deep end and do something completely unforgivable to herself.

That was what scared him the most, honestly. It wasn't because he didn't have faith in her strength, but everyone had their breaking point. Jace feared that just as she was his breaking point, he was hers. Moreover, his death would mean leaving her to the despicable hands of Valentine and Sebastian, both men who had more than adequately demonstrated their violent proclivities. If one were to compare the two situations, then death would seem like a fairer, easier, and more merciful of a fate than the latter.

If Sebastian's act of branding Clary was only a prelude to his callousness, then the remainder of her life was doomed to be purgatory. No one, Jace thought, least of all, an innocent who had endured far more pain than she ever deserved, should have to live like that. If that was what was at stake, then failure wasn't an option anymore. God help him, but Sebastian _had to_ die—

 _For Clary's sake._

Not long after the thought crossed his mind, the man in question arrived with a loud bang of the cell door. The gladiator, princess and doctor immediately stood up, Jace pushing Clary behind him in an attempt to shield her from Verlac's leering gaze.

A complete contrast to Jace, Sebastian was dressed to the nines in a full-bodied armor fashioned from the finest silver, a sword dangling from an ostentatious-looking scabbard at his waist. Two other men, whom Jace recognized to be his torturers, flanked the doorway of the cell, their faces adorning the same detestable smirk that Sebastian always seemed to wear. Idly, Jace wondered if Sebastian held frequent facial training with his lackeys to ensure that their smirks or scowls were up to par. They had to, to appear so abnormal.

"Bane," Sebastian acknowledged Magnus with a cold nod. The doctor gritted his teeth and met his glare head-on, angling himself just right so he could protect Clary, too. Unfortunately, his defiant move didn't go unnoticed by Sebastian. "Careful, Bane. You're treading on very thin ice here. It's only a matter of time before you're punished for choosing to serve on the wrong side. Treason is punishable by death, you know," he told him mockingly.

"Oh, I think I'll take my chances. I've always liked living on the edge anyway," Magnus countered with a grin.

Sebastian's left eye twitched with anger, but instead of responding, he turned his attention to Jace. "Herondale," he spat when their eyes locked in a hate-filled stare-down.

 _There._ Just that single acknowledgement was enough to set Jace's blood boiling.

His hands automatically curled into tight fists while his shoulders and arms contracted to the point where the veins of his muscles became visible. All of his earlier attempts at soothing his rage flew out of the window. With Sebastian's repugnant face staring him down, it was all he could do to remain where he stood despite his mounting desire to attack.

Jace might have resolved that he would try to avoid seeking revenge on Sebastian, but that was it—the operative word for him was 'try'. He was human. Humans were prone to erring, weren't they? God, how he wanted to wring his _neck_ —and claw his eyes out while he was at it! How he hated those black eyes… He could see the challenge in them—that smug hubris as if Verlac believed that he had already won—and he longed to knock it off his face.

 _You're not going to win._ _I AM,_ Jace growled primitively in his mind.

His conscience, however, once again taking on the voice of his decorous, no-nonsense mother, furiously reprimanded him to think calming thoughts and to breathe deeply. " _He's trying to bait you. Do not give in to your anger. DO NOT give in to your anger. Breathe, deep…"_

 _You have absolutely poor timing, Mama. Just this once, can't I just give in to my anger?_ He argued. _ONE punch. That's all I need. He deserves it—and more._

 _"Certainly,"_ his mother's imagined voice replied without missing a beat. _"But do_ think, _dear. Do you really want to risk getting yourself into a premature fight…weaponless, outnumbered, and in a cell with the lack of an actual audience to witness your scrimmage? One punch might be all you need, but it certainly won't be what Sebastian and his men would have in mind for you. The odds, my son, are not in your favor._ Patience… _"_

Though more than a little annoyed, Jace begrudgingly conceded to his mother's reasoning. She—or rather, _his_ rational self—had a point. If he allowed his reckless anger to blind him, he would risk walking into Sebastian's trap.

As if concurring with his thoughts, Clary's hand snaked around his waist, pressing her palm gently against his stomach, and he forced himself to exhale…again.

"Verlac," Jace sneered through gritted teeth.

Instead of replying, however, his enemy's black eyes left his aureate ones to seek out the princess, who was peering at him from behind her husband's muscular physique.

When their eyes inevitably locked, Clary resisted the urge to cower away from him and to seek complete refuge behind Jace. The last thing she wanted was to feel afraid of Sebastian, but her most recent encounter with him was still a fresh imprint on her mind. Looking at him now, she could feel herself being transported to the moment she was pinned down by Sebastian's body, the hot branding iron pressing down on her back. She winced as a series of sharp phantom pains radiated from the accursed mark— _his_ mark.

"Sweet darling Clarissa," the fiend crooned, poison laced in his sickly sweet tone.

Ironically, it was Jace's growl that lent her a semblance of sobriety, causing her to snap out of the horrid flashback—if only to gently _restrain_ her irate husband.

"Don't talk to her. Don't even look at her," Jace threatened as he pressed his back harder against her front, simulating the primitive, territorial-like reaction of a wolf guarding his mate.

The rational voice in his head was muted now, dominated by his furious alter who at the moment was spouting off a long, varied list of epithets that would have easily earned him a bar of soap to the mouth— _thrice_ —were his mother still alive. But even the thought of the latter could do nothing to stem the tide of his internal tirade. At the core of his brutal rage, all that Jace could feel was the impulse to rip out the other man's eyeballs for having the audacity to look at his wife; to cut out his tongue for daring to speak to her.

Predictably, Verlac remained audaciously unfazed. "Ah, I take it you've seen my latest mark on her, then," he chuckled darkly, as if enjoying the sight of the gladiator's increasingly reddened face. "Tell me, Herondale," he drawled, "How does it feel knowing that your wife has been branded by another man…by _me_? Does it repulse you to look at her? I wouldn't blame you. I would, too, had I been in your position…if my wife had so _willingly_ let another man mark her like the dirty little _shrew_ that she is." His scathing words were aimed directly towards the princess, who flinched heavily and whimpered into her husband's back in response.

A low snarl emanated from Jace's throat as his body trembled with withering self-control. "Shut up, Verlac! That was a pathetic cheap shot and you know it! My wife is the purest woman I know, so why don't you just keep your filthy thoughts to yourself and leave her alone? Your hours are numbered, _Verlac_ , so I suggest that you pray to God and hope to high heavens that He answers your screaming pleas to remove you from this world when I slowly carve _my_ mark onto _your_ face in the arena!" He barked viciously, even as he took Clary's hand in his and gave it a contrastingly gentle and comforting squeeze.

Yet his words were for naught as a deliberate, insouciant yawn was his enemy's only response. "Has it ever occurred to you just how tediously repetitive you are, Herondale?" Sebastian maliciously taunted. "In all my life, I've never met anyone quite as boring as you have proven yourself to be. I suppose that's the price of being a lovesick fool." If it were even possible, his black eyes grew even darker, as his next vitriolic sneer followed: "It makes me wonder if your wife holds your leash in bed, too."

As Jace moved to lunge forward, fist raised with the intent of attack, Clary wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, halting him from his otherwise _determined_ advance that would have taken Sebastian to the floor.

"Jace, don't!" She cried out.

"Yes, Jace, please don't!" Sebastian mocked her in a high-pitched voice.

"Don't listen to him," she pleaded into his ear. "Please, calm down, love…"

She continued in the same vein for several long, agonizing seconds until Jace was finally, more or less, subdued. He was still breathing raggedly but his earlier attempts to deface Sebastian with his bare hands had been quelled by sense and, oddly enough, _embarrassment_.

Yes, Jace appreciated his wife keeping him in line, but he was embarrassed that it took her pleading with him and physically holding onto him for him to keep his temper in check—and over one crude but petty remark. Where was his self-control, his discipline, the years he had put into training himself to not surrender to emotion?

"Interesting…you're not even going to _try_ to refute my theory?" Sebastian drawled.

Not trusting himself to speak so soon, Jace's only answer was a glare.

"Pity," Sebastian goaded. "You call yourself a gladiator, and _yet,_ you allow yourself to be controlled by an inferior _girl_."

Jace rose to Clary's defense before he could stop himself, but his tone was more even, placid. "Pity," he parroted. "You call yourself a king, and _yet_ , you allow yourself to be controlled by such short-sighted, vacuous beliefs." He allowed the words to sink in before adding, "For future reference, allow me to correct you, _Your Majesty_. My wife is no inferior girl. The heinous mark you've placed on her screams the contrary. The letter 'V' on her back may mean 'Verlac' to you, but it will always mean _'Valor'_ and _'Virtue'_ to me."

Hearing Clary's barely audible gasp of surprise—no doubt having not expected such a resolute defense from him, much less one that involved redefining the meaning of Verlac's mark—Jace squeezed her hand to convey his sincerity.

"Because that is exactly what my wife is," he continued. "A valorous and virtuous _woman_ whom I respect as my equal. For that alone, _Your Majesty,_ I find your pity misplaced and unneeded. Pity is more suitably reserved for male chauvinists like you who shame the sacrifices made by your mothers to help give you life."

For the first time, Sebastian looked actually affected by Jace's words. But his pride won over, as usual. "A vessel, no more," he alluded coldly to his mother. "As for you, _gladiator_ , I think it's best that you stick with what you know," he growled, the threat evident in his voice.

"Certainly," Jace chirped, enjoying the turn in the conversation—and the opening that Sebastian had foolishly given him. "I was a son before I became a gladiator, you know."

If looks could kill, then Jace would have been eviscerated by Sebastian's cold, lethal glare.

"We leave in five minutes," Sebastian announced, finally addressing the other occupants in the cells, before striding towards the exit. Just as he stepped through the doorway, he turned his head and met Jace's gaze over his shoulder. "You, Herondale." He smirked. "Be ready to meet your dear mother. I'm sure your long-awaited reunion in the afterlife will be most…pleasing _._ "

* * *

The scorching, malevolent sun bore down on Dumont, engulfing it in arid heat so thick, that Clary felt as if she were in actual hell. Not a single wisp of cloud wafted in the blazing noon sky to soften the harsh, garish rays; not even a gust of wind blew to assuage the blinding, sweltering heat. Even then, the arena was packed to the brim with Idrisians and foreigners from countries far and wide who came for the sole purpose of the games.

Seated stiffly on the dais next to her father, Clary wondered if she were the only unwilling attendee amongst a sea of visibly excited spectators. From what she could see, the people were conversing amongst themselves in such raucous tones and grinning and laughing and exchanging bets as if the heat—and the overall perversity of the concept of the games—didn't bother them one bit. How could these people stomach the idea of watching these gladiators—men in their own rights—laying down their lives for their entertainment? How could they stomach the gruesome sight of bloodshed on a battleground that should have never, _ever_ , existed in the first place? Was it ignorance or sheer depravation?

Whatever were their reasons, it was sickening to watch. Already, before she was escorted to the dais, Clary had been assaulted by a wave of nausea so powerful that she had thrown up— _twice_. The reality of Jace being one of those gladiators, an innocent forced into a cruel fate, had struck her hard enough to trigger her sickness. And, of course, the heat was partly to blame, too.

She was glad that Isabelle had the foresight to dress her in one of her cooling silk dresses and spared her from the torturous contraption better known to some of the upperclass Idrisian women as 'corsets'. Had she been dressed in one, she was certain that she would have spent a good portion of the games passed out like a wilted flower. But in spite of her begrudging gratitude, she wished that she had been allowed to wear a different color other than deep red; it unsettled her that even her clothes resembled the color of blood.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Valentine's voice broke through her thoughts.

As Clary whipped her head around to face him, she found her father already staring at her, a conniving smirk plastered onto his clean-shaven and unnaturally youthful-looking face. At times she wondered how it was possible that her father never seemed to age. How could it be that a man who has sinned so much not bear any signs of decay? Was he even human?

Seeing her blank look, he indulgently explained. "Year by year, more and more people flock to Idris just to watch the games. _My_ games," he said proudly.

Clary glared at him icily. "I would hardly call that an achievement," she scoffed. "But of course, you would think that because of what you get to _gain_ from them, isn't it? That's what all this is about? It's never about the people—it's always about _you_." As her father's charcoal-black eyes bore into her emerald ones, Clary felt the corner of her mouth lift into a recalcitrant smirk. "Do you know what you are?" She whispered. "You're a _sick_ man, Valentine Morgenstern."

Clary winced as her father's hand shot out and squeezed her arm in a painful grip. As much as it hurt her, she couldn't help but find amusement in his reaction. Who knew the words of an _insignificant weakling_ could provoke such a strong reaction out of a _poised_ and _refined_ man like her father? What was he always droning on about self-control in the presence of an audience? Her father was a hypocrite, and Clary, for all her capacity to love, couldn't help but feel a sting of _loathing_ towards him. This was the man who had abused her and her brother, whose hands were stained with the blood of so many innocents, including his own wife!

"You would do well to watch your tongue, Clarissa—before I _cut_ it out of your mouth," Valentine sneered venomously. "I have been more than tolerant with your many infractions. If it weren't for Sebastian, don't think that I would have hesitated to put you six feet underground, just like your ungrateful whore of a mother!"

"Don't talk about her like that! You're the treacherous murderer! You deserved nothing less than our betrayal! MONSTER!" Clary struggled against his restraining grasp but Valentine only held onto her tighter, the protruding veins in his neck straining with his rising temper.

"STOP IT!" Valentine demanded in a harsh tone. He dug his nails into her arm, rendering a choked gasp out of her and undoubtedly leaving behind more bruises on her pale skin. "Don't you forget, Clarissa. Your worthless trash of a husband's fate lies in my hands." At that, Clary finally stilled, her eyes widening in horror at the implied threat.

Valentine's sudden smile was one of satisfaction. "You see, Clarissa… That's the problem with love. It makes you weak. _Predictable._ You should have heeded me when I warned you." Leaning towards her, Valentine began to whisper in rancorous tones, "Remember, daughter…and remember well. _To love is to destroy…and to be loved is to be the one destroyed._ "

With a huff, he released his daughter's arm and rose from his seat, ignoring her distraught look as he walked up to the balustrade. A fake grin stretched across his face as he greeted the people, all of whom remained blissfully oblivious as they showered him with thunderous applause.

"Citizens and honored friends of Idris, welcome!" Valentine's booming voice reverberated throughout the arena, encouraging even loud cheers and whistles from the people.

Clary watched him with contempt as she rubbed at the freshly formed bruise on her arm, furiously gritting her own teeth to hold back the tears from escaping. The desperation had come back in full force, almost overwhelming her, but she willed herself to stay strong, to not _break_ , even if her mind wanted to. She was just _so_ tired—of her father and Sebastian. _God,_ the only thing she looked forward to was falling asleep in Jace's arms tonight…but even the odds of that happening was surrounded by a thick black smoke of uncertainty.

Valentine raised his arms in a gesture that commanded silence, and almost all at the once, the crowd granted it to him.

"My dear friends, as you would all probably know by now, Idris has seen her fair share of the games—to be precise, it has been nearly six whole years since our very first games!" The white-haired king declared with a grin. "Indeed, that itself is a testament as to how far we have come, and now, I cannot even begin to express how deeply _humbled_ I am to be given yet another glorious opportunity to treat each and every single one of you to this spectacular display of sportsmanship in my arena." He paused as he took in a breath, lapping up the attention of the hundreds of thousands pairs of eyes watching him.

"I know all of you must be wondering how I would be able to make this games a far greater revel that the previous ones…but all I can say is this: I hope that you'll be able to spare your undying faith in me." As he delivered the last sentence, Valentine made a show of placing his hand over his heart and bowing his head, as if imploring the crowd for their support.

It was at that exact moment that Clary realized how her father managed to dupe her people for so long; he held so much ingenuity and charisma that his ability to orchestrate an image that was most beneficial for him was second to none.

And right now, she found it appalling that the people were looking at him as if he were a saint. _St. Valentine_ , she thought with a shake of her head, _Imagine that!_

Then: _An act!_ Clary screamed in her head. _This is all just an act! Can't you people_ see _?_

"But before we commence," Valentine continued, "I would like to dedicate this year's games to my daughter and her dearly betrothed…" He gave a dramatic pause before announcing with a trace of a smirk in his voice, "King Sebastian of Alicante."

Clary's heart dropped to her stomach when the cheers grew impossibly louder.

"For those of you who have not heard of King Sebastian, I assure you that he is an extraordinary young man…one whom I would be proud to call my son-in-law." _No, no, no,_ Clary chanted in her head. _He isn't an extraordinary man. He isn't. How dare you soil the meaning of the word?_ "For years, King Sebastian and his father, the late King Alfred, have proven to be great allies and true visionaries of the gladiator games. I heartily admit; I would not have accomplished this much without their compassion and allegiance."

More cheers.

"I could go on and on about the Verlac family, but I'm certain that none of you would have the patience to put up with my prattle," Valentine joked, to which the people, to Clary's bafflement, obliged him with several bellows of laughter. "My blood is roaring for some carnage! WHAT SAY YOU?"

Three synchronized cheers of huzzah followed.

"My dearest friends, this year we have our _war-chariot fighters_! We have our _beast fighters_! We have our _velites_! We even have—" Valentine's voice dropped to a dramatic note, "A very special match between King Sebastian of Alicante and one of the youngest gladiators of our generation, _Shadowhunter_!"

At the mention of Jace's gladiator alter ego, the sounds of the people's galvanizing voices and stamping feet began to blare uncontrollably like sirens in Clary's eardrums, that it took an immeasurable amount of strength to keep herself from exploding. She dug her nails into the armrests of her seat, trying not to let the pandemonium affect her. Even though she had known that it was an eventuality, her mind still screamed loudly in protest: _NO! Not my Jace!_

Judging from their response, Clary concluded that Jace, despite having spent his active gladiator years fighting behind a mask, was a well-known crowd favorite. 'Shadowhunter' was a name every gladiator enthusiast knew; his numerous successes in the battlefield had borne him the title of the 'legendary warrior'. The fact that his identity remained a mystery only added to his allure. It was no surprise that the people looked forward to seeing him in action—especially in one which pitted him against a monarch, no less!

 _This is real. This is happening,_ she thought dreadfully. Jace, _her husband_ , was going to fight Sebastian—and only one man would be walking out of the arena alive.

Clary's fear returned…a hundredfold. She bit her tongue as nausea roiled violently in her stomach, the bitter taste of acid pricking the back of her throat.

 _"Be strong, Clary. Be strong for me. I'll see you later. We'll be all right,"_ Jace's parting words to her echoed above the din, and Clary shoved the pessimistic voice out of her head, keeping her emerald green eyes steeled onto the centerstage of the arena.

Upon inclining his head towards the games warden, Valentine returned to his seat. With a simple flourish of his hand, the first long horn was blown, shortly thereafter accompanied by the cacophonous rattling of iron and chains as the gates were raised.

"LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

* * *

 _ **A/N: I know I sorta promised action in this chapter, but as I was revising and adding/removing stuff, (mostly adding stuff), the word count for the chapter rose... I was seriously hitting 15K words for the chapter, so I decided to break it into half. Some of you may feel that this chapter was bleh, practically a filler chapter, but I still feel that it is necessary nonetheless. Every moment of thought that each character (mostly Jace and Clary) has in the story, to me, is very central to their development...hence why I keep them or expand on them.**_

 ** _Old readers, you'll recognize that the essence of this chapter is still the same, but as usual, I've added in more details. For instance, one of the newer dialogues I wrote in, and particularly liked, was Jace redefining the mark that Sebastian had branded onto Clary's back. Instead of 'V' representing Verlac, he redefined the alphabet as a mark of Clary's virtue and valor—which is pretty darn sweet of him, if I do say so myself!_**

 ** _New readers! I know some of you might have found the branding thing to be cruel and off-putting, but as the writer, I found it to be impactful to the storyline, and, not to sound like a broken record, but it was an important event, and hence, quite pivotal to Clary's development._**

 ** _That aside, let me know what_ you _guys think._**

 ** _I am still editing the second half of the chapter (well, now it's a completely separate chapter from this one), so it'll take me some time._**

 ** _Until then,_**

 ** _peace and love xoxo_**


	24. Chapter 22: The Devil's Playground

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **Hello lovelies, here's an update (FINALLY!)**_

 _ **Apologies for the long wait. I have been really busy, and will continue to be busy, unfortunately. We will get to the end eventually (in fact, we're almost there), so please be patient with me, my dear readers.**_

 _ *****And as always, to all who have reviewed the past chapters, my huge thanks of appreciation to you for your support and kind words**_ _ *******_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 22: THE DEVIL'S PLAYGROUND**

 **December 30, 508 _(Part II)_**

 _Crimson—that was the color that splattered itself against the coarse, sandy graveyard not even a minute into the first match._

Clary fisted the upholstery of her seat as the high-pitched sounds of metal clanged and clashed against one another in an endless cacophony. Shields and weapons of every kind were drawn haphazardly as gladiators and soldiers alike competed in a barbaric tournament for their lives. Arrows and spears flew across the air as chariots circled the battlefield in an unending chaos, and hungry lions rattled viciously against their chains in pursuit of their unsuspecting victims, their fanged jaws snapping and savagely tearing apart human flesh.

It was a gruesome spectacle, one which she loathed to watch. In the arena, there was nary the opportunity to witness true loyalty or sportsmanship. Here, only violence existed—as did fear and true despair that only spurred its combatants into initiating more violence.

Clary desired nothing more than to squeeze her eyes shut and to turn her head away, yet she found herself incapable of doing any of those things. Instead, she watched, her heart pounding to the point of near exertion, as men after men fell to their deaths, the gladiators and her father's soldiers included: the Raveners, the Behemoths, and the Drevaks. She found it strange that the divisions were named as such, but from the way the fought—viciously and ravenously like a pack of demons—she wasn't at all surprised. They lived up to their name…the same way they died for it. All in the name of the Devil's amusement.

 _23, 24, 25, 26…_

 _The body count continued to rise._

It repulsed her to no end that despite the bloody gore of the scene before them, the crowd's cheers never faltered. They cheered when a man screamed for his life, moments before he was savagely hacked down. They cheered when a spear went through another unsuspecting man's torso and he fell, eyes bulging widely with shock. They cheered when another misfortunate soul tripped…right into a lion's pit before being mauled to death.

Was this truly what the world she lived in had come to? Men who were supposed to conduct themselves with nobility, with virtue, were instead behaving like a pack of rabid, insentient beings. Men killing men. Men who _enjoyed_ the deaths of other men. It wasn't right. _It wasn't—_

A loud crash hauled Clary out of her distressed thoughts, and she turned her head just in time to watch a Drevak soldier clambering out of his upturned chariot. His right arm hung limply by his side as blood oozed from a deep cut on his shoulder. But in spite of the injury, his attention was elsewhere: on the sword that was now lying on the ground, just inches away from his reach.

The man's face twisted into a look of determination as he crawled and clawed his way towards the sword, an instrument of extreme necessity in his fight for survival. But it quickly morphed into desperation as soon as he realized that he was being shadowed by a black-haired gladiator.

The latter, though looking worse for wear and bearing a heavy gash on his left knee, staggered after his fallen, crawling prey, electric blue eyes gleaming with the intent to kill. He swung his weaponed arm back, and like a seasoned executioner, brought it down on his target in one fatal blow. The soldier instantly stilled as his fingers just barely brushed the hilt of the sword, a spray of red pooling from his neck…from where his head was no longer intact.

As she did with the rest of the casualties whose deaths she had witnessed today, Clary closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer for the man. Despite her reluctance towards the games, she couldn't help but feel a surge of sympathy for the fighters; for the men whose lives had been so meaninglessly sacrificed, and even for their killers, who had little choice over their actions.

Before, Clary had only ever experienced a little more than bewilderment, hatred and disgust for the games, and by extension, those guilty by association: the games masters, the soldiers, and even the gladiators. But after being married to Jace and hearing firsthand his heart-rending confessions about the harsh realities of being a gladiator—of how morals were easily dampened, _muted_ when in battle, a secondary layer that was oft dominated by a primitive instinct for survival—she began to understand and then mourn for them.

Certainly, it didn't make the act of killing right, but she understood now that being a gladiator or soldier was no easy position. It was only natural to desire life over death—even Clary concurred with the sentiment, selfish though it might make her—so how could she ever condemn these men for doing what they could to stay alive? Especially when those who ought to be blamed were the perpetrators of the games, the _real_ villains who lounged on their thrones and watched the display with glee…men, sadly, like her own father.

 _Oh, why,_ Clary thought, as she glanced over at the laughing king, _couldn't you have endorsed a less violent sport? Why, Father mine, do you have to be so cruel? Do you not fear the consequences of your actions…of the day where there will be no escape from justice? Please, Valentine—_ Father. _You are not all-powerful. Please, stop this before it's too late! Turn back!_

Tears escaped her eyes as she prayed fervently, despairingly, for her father to have a change in heart. So many times she had uttered similar words in her head, underneath her breath, sometimes repetitively like a chant, but she had yet to see them take effect. It broke her heart, truly, to think that there could be no redemption for her father. Why didn't he _want_ to change? What did he possibly see in this life of callousness, of bloodthirstiness, that was so attractive, so irresistible, that he would give up his humanity for it? Why, why, _why_?

 _"Sometimes, there isn't always a direct answer,"_ she recalled her brother saying, the last time they had spoken in length about their father. _"How people are, why they choose to be that way…is not an easy thing to explain. A good person can just as easily fall, to become corrupted and evil…just as it can be easy for a bad person to repent and become good. There is a remarkably fine line between the two. How those lines cross depends on the person himself—his conscious_ will _. True change is sparked by an unfeigned desire, then it takes form through willing action. There can be no compulsion, otherwise it's just meaningless…"_

As Clary 'awoke' from the memory of Jon's shrewd words, she was startled to realize that the fierce battle had already begun to wind down.

For God knew how long, she had been so disillusioned, disconnected from the material world. Now, looking at the arena, she could see only nine survivors standing amid the corpse-littered battlefield, their blades raised in victory as the crowd showered them with a blast of celebratory cheers. The heavy iron gates were raised aloft, permitting the survivors their leave. Then another horn was blown, signaling a brief interlude before the long-awaited finale.

Clary blanched as reality suddenly came rushing back to her. _Only one more match left_ , she thought with heart-sickening dread. _Jace!_

* * *

 _"Why do people die?" Jace clutched his pillow to his chest as his mother sat beside him on his bed. It was an honest, curious query, even if perhaps, stained by fear._

 _Before that very afternoon, the young boy had thought that people had the ability to live forever. When he realized that it wasn't so, he was overcome by an inexplicable rush of paranoia, constantly looking over his shoulder as if death would come for him at any given time._

 _The former, he realized belatedly, was indeed a true assessment: Death_ could _claim his life at any given time, and he would have been none the wiser._ When _—he dared not speculate._

 _"That's hardly a question a boy your age should be asking, Jace," his mother replied._

 _"But I just saw a servant boy die!" His voice raised several octaves higher as he felt the back of his neck prickle with fear. "What if I'm next?" He whispered._

 _"Oh, my sweet Jace," his mother cooed in a sympathetic tone as she tugged her five-year-old son into a consoling embrace._

 _Jace squirmed. "You think I'm being silly, don't you?" He muttered in a sulky tone._

 _"Not at all, my love," she reassured him. "It is only natural to fear death—I would be greatly surprised if you weren't." Jace said nothing in response. "My darling, listen. No one, I feel, should ever have to experience death before they've had the chance to live their lives to the fullest…but it's not a matter that any of us has a say in."_

 _"I don't want to die, Mama," Jace sniffled. "I don't want you or Daddy to die, either. Why can't people just live forever?"_

 _"Because," his mother sighed. "That's just the way it is, sweetheart. If everyone could live forever, then what_ is _the point to life? It may sound strange to you now, but believe me, my love, there are lessons to be taken from death. The importance of living in gratitude and humility, for instance…"_

 _Jace frowned. Though he understood his mother to an extent, he was also weary of her explanation. He was, after all, a wilful child, ofttimes precocious, but still had much to learn._

 _"One day, your father and I will no longer be around…" Jace's eyes turned glossy with unshed tears when his mother continued. "I have no idea when that day will come," her voice softened, as did her golden eyes, "But no matter what happens, you should never stop yourself from living and being happy. We will be with you always, Jace. Always…"_

* * *

 _We will always be with you._

 _Never stop yourself from living._

 _Be happy._

 _Live._

The words from his childhood rang in his mind as Jace stepped into the arena.

Before today, the memory of that particular conversation used to irk him. It was the same memory that had tormented him in the first five years following his parents' untimely demise. At one point, he had tried to snuff out the memory altogether, fearing that the anger would only continue to build and eventually turn into resentment.

He loved his parents, but every time he remembered _those_ words, he often found himself wondering how his mother could have lied to him. Those eight years he had grown up without them, hopelessly lost when he still considered himself a child in need of his parents' guidance… _they weren't there._

Michael, despite his tendency to show him more attention than he did other older gladiators he acquired over the years, could never fill the parent-shaped, gaping hole in his heart. His old master didn't know how to, and Jace never felt the need to encourage it from him either. He was, after all, a _slave—_ and slaves did not make requests of their masters, least of all to ask them if they were willing to love them as one of their own.

And so, as time wore on, Jace forwent living, and only did what was necessary for him to survive. It was ironic, he realized now. Despite how much he had craved for revenge, or how often his mind had conjured up numerous ways to end Valentine's life in the most painful ways possible, the probability of walking into his very last match before the opportunity of facing Valentine ever even presented itself, hadn't actually bothered him as much as one would have believed. Why, what was there to look forward to after killing his enemy?

 _The throne? Being king?_

No, despite his upbringing as a member of royalty, or the once-held belief that he would one day inherit the throne from his father, Jace didn't see the prospect of shouldering the responsibility that would inevitably come with power as appealing. But _death_ , contrary to his younger self's intense fear of it, sometimes appeared to be an attractive notion. A chance to be free from the shackles of slavery… Now, why wouldn't he want _that_?

It was only when the redheaded princess— _his enemy's daughter!_ —came into his life, that his entire world changed. Where numbness had once resided, he began to experience a whole array of emotions he had never felt before. _Love. Fear._ An inexplicable desire to be _accepted_ and _desired_. And where his future used to be dim and unseeable, he began to see and want things he never dared to dream of: actual freedom, the chance to have his own family, and even just to grow old with his wife. He wanted _everything_. His entire being _ached_ for it.

Even though he and Clary had only been together for three months, he knew without a sliver of doubt in his heart that she was his one true soulmate. There was never a woman who came before her, nor will there ever be one after her. Such a love was difficult to come by, Jace had realized, which made it all the worth fighting for.

As he strode towards the center of the arena, Jace carried himself with his head held high. He didn't feel any shame or regret—only _resolve_ and _hope_. Too long he had suffered in the shadows of his past, burdened with guilt that wasn't quite his to bear. Now that he had finally come to terms with his past, he intended to live up to his promise to his mother: to live.

 _God, please—let this match be my best. Let me be strong, quick, and sure-footed,_ he prayed. _If I walk out of this arena alive, I promise to live well and to be a man that my parents would proud of…to be a better husband to protect and cherish my wife. Please…let me win._

"Amen," Jace whispered as he opened his eyes. Raising his head, he met Clary's gaze through the visor of his bronze helmet that Michael had commissioned for him two years ago as a gift.

Unsurprisingly, his wife was looking at him with an expression that conveyed her love and encouragement. And though she tried her best to hide it—he believed, for _his_ sake—Jace could tell that she was afraid for him. It was strength personified, in a way that was both peculiar and beautiful, like Clary. His adoration and love for her grew in abundance.

" _I love you,_ " Her mouth moved to shape the three words he loved hearing her say to him.

Despite where he was, Jace couldn't suppress his smile; it showed, even though his helmet still concealed most of his face. Unsure if Clary could see him mouth the words back to her, he raised his right hand to his mouth, then blew her a kiss to convey the sentiment. Her smile grew, blinding and infectious, that Jace's mood effectively improved, even as he redirected his gaze to his father-in-law, who was glaring at him with the force of a thousand suns.

He grinned mockingly at Valentine before doing what most gladiators dared not perform, much less to a monarch: he blew him a taunting, derisive kiss. The crowd's reaction was instantaneous. They burst into loud guffaws at his bold provocation, neither of them apparently caring of the fact that he was being disrespectful towards their king.

"Shadowhunter! Shadowhunter! Shadowhunter!" They cheered.

Feeling invigorated by the mass approval, Jace raised his hand and waved at them, undeterred even when he felt the burning glare of Valentine's eyes on the side of his head. It was an unspoken message that sent anyone watching breaking into a frenzy of awe. Shadowhunter—no, _Jace Herondale_ —was unafraid…and if it was his destiny to mete out retributive justice upon his parents' murderer, then by all means, Valentine Morgenstern was next.

The latter knew it, too, as far as Jace could tell from the way his posture had turned amusingly rigid by the time their eyes met again.

 _Oh, Valentine…_ Jace thought with a pleased chuckle. _Did you honestly think that I'd be crawling my way into this match, then lie down submissively in the middle of the arena for Sebastian to slay me? Did you really think that you could break me so easily? I'm a_ Herondale. _I will not submit, least of all to the likes of you._

Only when the sound of the royal fanfare blared, announcing the entrance of Sebastian Verlac, did Jace finally tear his gaze from Valentine.

The Alicantean king emerged from the gates on the opposing side, his strides leisurely and confident, underscoring his cocky and complacent nature.

Jace found his initial amusement slipping, and the rage he felt towards the fiend return. Much like before, Sebastian was fully cloaked in fine armor while his head sported a lavish-looking helmet, complete with brass-plating and a magnificent red crest on the top like a horse's mane. In his right hand, he carried a sword emblazoned with the letter 'V' that represented the name Verlac…much like the mark that now resided permanently on his wife's back.

Expelling a long, shuddering breath at the unwelcome reminder, he took an even number of steps towards Sebastian, purposely mirroring the other's pace. In a weak effort to stem his rising anger, he glanced down at his own weapon. It was a plain-looking broadsword that didn't boast any impressive decorative features, but would serve its purpose sufficiently in a duel.

 _It's certainly sharp enough to carve a nice, bloody mark onto Verlac's ugly mug,_ his subconscious whispered darkly. _A drastic facial improvement to be sure._

As their eyes met in a meaningful stare-down, furious gold clashing with unexpressive black, Jace adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, mindful not to exert too much pressure that could potentially compromise his own performance in the upcoming swordplay. Then, once the two opponents were an appropriate distance away from each other, he set to correcting his stance, staggering his feet until they were a shoulder width apart, his knees bent slightly. Drawing his sword, he pointed the tip upwards, completing the familiar en garde position, and waited.

Sebastian, however, didn't move. His obsidian eyes lazily roamed over Jace's body, his posture relaxed as he swung his sword around in idle circles.

"Fancy afternoon, Herondale?" The arrogant dunce drawled before raising his sword in a theatrically unconcerned gesture.

Jace bit back his growl—and the acerbic reply that was sitting at the edge of his tongue. By God, the loathsome idiot even had the gall to _smile_!

 _Patience. Breathe. Losing yourself to your anger_ is _submission. You mustn't fall for it. Patience._

Jace released a slow, cleansing breath. While initially certain that Sebastian was severely underestimating him, he couldn't shake off the perturbed feeling in his gut that told him that the entire act of nonchalance on Sebastian's part was exactly what it was: a deceptive _act_ designed to continuously antagonize him. For that reason alone, Jace resolved that _he_ mustn't underestimate Sebastian either by assuming that his skills were beneath his.

 _Pride may be the downfall of my enemy, but it must not be mine._

Still refusing to drop his stance to accommodate the latter's apathetic behavior, Jace instead seized the opportunity to carefully observe Sebastian, trying to seek out any potential weaknesses—sans his pride—that he could use against him.

"Don't waste your time searching, Herondale," Sebastian's amused voice broke him out of his silent assessment. "There's nothing that you will find lacking in my ability to kill you."

"Careful. Lest your words come back to stab you…in the back."

"Back to this again, are we? Such idle threats are far beneath my notice. Beautiful women, on the other hand…" Sebastian looked away from him, then smiled widely when his eyes landed on the one person the both of them were vying for. _Clary._ "Look at her. A fine beauty, _that_ is," he commented in a tone that betrayed his carnal and lecherous designs over the young princess.

Feeling protective anger swarm his being, Jace's eyes followed in the same direction as Verlac's until he found himself looking at his wife. His breath caught in his throat. A point Sebastian had made that even he couldn't contest…Clary _was_ beautiful. There was nothing about her that could be considered an imperfection, at least not to him. Everything, from the way her auburn curls hung in large, wavy ringlets down her waist, to the way her dress hugged her body and accentuated what minimal curves she had, was a stunning sight.

"Drink it all in, Herondale…this may very well be the last time you'll ever see her," Sebastian's smirk was obvious in his tone. "Just think. Come tomorrow morning, _your widow_ will be _my wife_. Oh yes—I am going to enjoy her very much."

Jace shook himself out of his trance. Turning to his rival, he seethed when he noticed him unashamedly undressing _his_ wife with his eyes. What he would give to stab his sword through those very same eyes…

Surprisingly, it was Michael's voice that momentarily placated him: _"Anger blinds. Remember, Jace. Never let your emotions get the best of you. You are a better fighter without it."_

Releasing his hand from its fist, Jace tried to rein in his anger once more. "That's enough out of you, Verlac," he answered in a clipped tone. "If I was interested in having a mindless conversation with you, I wouldn't be standing here in the arena with a sword in my hand. But I'm not. So why don't we put our swords to use and let them do the talking instead?"

Gathering his equilibrium, he readied his sword and silently challenged Sebastian to make his move. The fiend's lips curled into an amused smirk before he _finally_ imitated his stance, and as if waiting on their cue, the horn signaling the start of their match was sounded.

 _And so it begins…_

Honing his senses like a trained hunter, Jace kept his eyes locked onto Sebastian's fathomless black ones as they began circling each other slowly, calculatingly, like two lions discovered in the midst of a hostile confrontation. His golden eyes were steely and focused, taking in everything about his enemy: the way his feet moved, the way his hand gripped his sword, his eye movement—even the way he _breathed_ didn't escape his assiduous surveillance.

In the distance, several drums began to beat dramatically, adding to the anticipation of the impending battle. A second passed, then another, yet for Jace, the moments preceding the match were as if time had stood completely still. Then finally, as if issued a divine warning, a vision flashed before his golden eyes, mere seconds before any actual movement took place…

As Sebastian lunged forward, the sharp tip of his blade aiming for his chest, Jace expertly sidestepped out of the way and parried the blow with his own sword. There was a sharp clang as their blades clashed and an even higher-pitched squeal when they were forcibly disengaged.

Shoving Sebastian several steps backwards, Jace was the next to initiate an attack, striking swiftly at his enemy's abdomen. But before he could even land a graze on him, Sebastian leaped out of the way with an excitable laugh, his face donning a blithe and carefree expression, as if they were two children playing a harmless game of tag.

"Is that all you got, oh _great_ and _legendary_ Shadowhunter?" He mocked him.

Even though Jace was aware that the match had barely started, he couldn't stop himself from letting out a vexed growl at his enemy's flagrantly blasé attitude and his audacity to belittle him. He had never known an opponent who talked as much as Sebastian did while somehow managing to get on his every last nerve. Then again, none of Sebastian's predecessors had ever invaded his personal boundaries and abused him _and his wife_ prior to their meeting in the arena.

 _Focus! Your mind should always be on the here and now!_ His old master's voice reprimanded him sharply in his mind.

Jace didn't know why he was imagining Michael's voice _again_ of all things, but reluctantly reasoned that it more than likely had to do with his present circumstances of fighting in the arena. Michael, after all, had been his mentor and had taught him how to survive when it mattered. Even if Jace still felt resentful towards the older man for his betrayal, he wasn't going to refute the wisdom of his advice.

 _Here and now,_ Jace repeated to himself.

Forgoing a reply to his enemy's taunt, he sprung forward again and proceeded to execute a complex series of attacks…nimble and skilled moves which, under most circumstances, would have easily gained him the upper hand within seconds. Unfortunately, Sebastian proved to be an equally cunning and proficient swordsman. He met Jace's onslaught with smooth counterattacks of his own, grinning maddeningly as if deflecting blows were his second nature.

Jace found that he couldn't admire his opponent's skill one bit—especially when the latter was being so utterly and vexingly hubristic over his display of swordsmanship. As the match progressed, the young gladiator began to desire nothing more than to slash the fiend's contemptuous smirk off of his face—permanently. He would do the world a multitude of justice without that filthy mouth of his getting in the way, Jace thought as he brandished his blade in the general direction of Sebastian's face, genuinely trying to actualize his thoughts.

His sword came millimeters away from marring Sebastian's unblemished visage—the unprotected skin left bare by his helmet—but once again, the latter managed to evade the blow. Letting out a mirthless chortle, the Alicantean king ducked underneath Jace's blade and threw a harsh kick at his sternum. The impact was jarring enough to send Jace grunting in pain, but after the initial stumble, he recovered his footing on solid ground.

Even then, he could feel the dark threads of frustration swirling about him, once again threatening to cloud his judgment. Before it could take hold of him, he tamped it down fiercely, and in a moment fueled by pure tenacity and resolve, called upon the training of his early days as Shadowhunter—days where no emotion existed, only sheer skill, stamina, speed, and more tangibly, a sharp sword in his hand. Slowly, the sounds around him began to dissolve into a dull white noise until the only thing his ears could pick up on was his own pounding heartbeat.

 _The past is behind me,_ he chanted in his mind. _I only exist in the here and now._

In short work, their lethal dance began to grow in intensity. A sharp thrust here, a nimble parry there. Another feint, followed by a quick swerve. Save for the occasional superficial grazes on their armors, neither had actually succeeded in landing any actual hits. Jace confessed; he had never expected to be pit against an adversary who was so evenly matched against him. Usually, his agility alone was what gave him the advantage in a fight, a means to wear his opponent down, but Sebastian remained mostly unaffected—if a little breathless, but he was a long ways from slowing down. Despite his frustration and general loathing towards the man, he couldn't dismiss the feeling of begrudging respect the latter had evoked from him.

 _Damn you, Verlac,_ he cursed almost immediately after completing his previous thought.

In a near-critical step that caused his vision to be temporarily obstructed by the sun's glaring rays, Jace found himself robbed of his momentum when Sebastian pummeled him with a vicious right hook to his jaw. As his head jerked backwards, Sebastian took advantage of his winded state to advance with another deadly swing, this time aiming for his hip.

Sensing the danger, Jace narrowly dodged the hit with a masterful pirouette, thankful when he ascertained that he hadn't been sliced into two. But his gratitude was short-lived when he realized how tired and achy his body felt, more so than he would have been this early into a match. He knew it likely had to do with the less than stellar conditions he had been kept in during his capture by the tyrants—not that knowing the fact changed anything. He was still breathing harshly, sweat pouring down his face, neck, armpits and elsewhere unforgivingly. On top of it all, the torrid heat was aggravating him with an unnecessary migraine.

 _Here and now, my foot!_ He thought snippily. _At this rate, the cause of my death will be this pounding headache—or suffocation by my own body odour._

Feeling the urgent need to regroup himself, he took several quick steps away from Sebastian, trying to put as much distance between the two of them without making it seem as if he were actually retreating. And just like that, they were back to square one.

Sebastian was smirking. "Tired already, Herondale?" He feigned concern, though the effect was lost by the cold look in his demonic-looking eyes.

Jace's own smirk materialized as he casually spun his sword at his hip level. Truth be told, he was exhausted, and more than a little uncomfortable, but admitting either to the enemy was a foolish mistake he could never see himself making. Already, his pride was smarting from this elected course of action, brief though he intended it to be, but he knew that if he had continued the battle without rest, it would do him more harm than good. A minor bruise to his pride was fine, but to lose his life because of it was unacceptable.

Once he managed to get his breathing under control, Jace was pleased to discover that his migraine—and temper—had subsided some. _Yes, definitely a good decision,_ he thought.

Out loud, he replied in a calm tone: "I'm just barely starting, Verlac," before lunging forward with an unexpected burst of energy.

Again, their blades collided as the two foes resumed their deadly match. Back and forth they went, each movement quick, measured and decisive, but contrarily lacking the _impact_ both sought in order to accomplish their objective. Anytime either of them came close to delivering the mortal blow, the other would somehow manage to steer clear, to survive a few seconds longer. It was eerily beautiful to watch—how was it possible that these two men, who before today had never even practiced duelling with each other, be able to execute such a fluid, near flawless choreography? How were they able to predict each other's moves so faultlessly?

Another earth-shattering clash exploded from the battlefield as both men's blades locked against each other in a stalemate, the two pushing and shoving in a power play of strength and endurance. Jace gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands as he held firm against Sebastian's unyielding weight, enervated but far from willing to cave in and be bested by the fiend.

 _Hold on—just a minute longer._ Even the voice in his head sounded strained. _Push—harder!_

Jace gritted his teeth, and with as much force as he could muster, pushed against Sebastian hard. His efforts were rewarded by the latter's less than graceful, if not slightly comical, tumble to the ground, his sword sailing through the air and landing in the dirt a fair distance from where he was lying. Jace's exhale of breath was loud and expressive of relief. _Finally._ Sebastian was down, and for the first time ever, completely vulnerable.

Seizing the long-awaited opportunity, he moved in and proceeded to straddle Sebastian's stomach while strategically pinning his limbs down with his weight. The crowd excitedly cheered his name again, but in the moment, Jace registered them as nothing more than another indecipherable buzzing noise—a meaningless void, for all he cared. Because for the first time in two years, this match wasn't for the people. It was _personal_ —between him and Sebastian.

The young king struggled, almost rabid, underneath Jace's hold but abruptly halted when the latter pressed the sharp edge of his sword against his throat, exerting just the slightest bit of pressure against his Adam's apple. Despite the withering look he shot him, Jace began to see traces of fear and apprehension in his enemy's black eyes. So the tyrant _did_ know fear…

Jace's hand shook; he knew what he needed to do, knew just how easy it was now to end his enemy's life. If he angled his blade just right, and slashed the carotid artery in his enemy's neck, Sebastian would bleed out and die—

 _Snap out of it, Herondale! What are you waiting for? Kill him!_

—but in spite of logic screaming at him to _do it_ , Jace hesitated. Would it be right of him to kill an unarmed man? The moralistic question, intrusive as it was, stilled his hand.

"Well? Aren't you going to kill me? Isn't that what you so desperately wanted to do—to avenge your wife's honor?" Sebastian hissed through his teeth. The fear in his eyes was gone now, replaced by a mocking expression. He arched his neck, further exposing his throat, but Jace scarcely even twitched. "What's the matter, Herondale? Afraid to take away the life of a king? Afraid you'd be known as a _sniveling coward_ like Valentine?"

Jace's glare faltered for a millisecond, then turned icy cold. "Neither," he returned coolly, his golden eyes blazing with renewed determination. "I'm just not finished with you _yet_."

As he brusquely removed himself from Sebastian, the crowd erupted in loud disapproving jeers.

"Get up! Pick up your sword and fight me! I will not kill man while he lies defenseless on the ground!" Jace shouted amid the people's insults.

If Sebastian was pleased or grateful that Jace had actually given him a second chance, he didn't show it. Instead, he flashed the gladiator a self-satisfied smirk before standing up and dusting the dirt off of himself, his entire aura radiating a careless sense of flippancy.

"If you insist," The young king gave Jace a mocking bow before turning his back on him to leisurely retrieve his sword.

Jace's patience wore exceedingly thin. The moment Sebastian's fingers grasped the hilt, he closed in on him, sword raised high to strike his opponent down. Sebastian managed to duck at the very last second, but Jace was equally as quick to improvise. Seeing an opening, he rammed his fist into Sebastian's face, the sound of bones crunching loudly beneath his knuckles as they connected with his enemy's skin. Following up with a swing aimed at Sebastian's neck, Jace believed that the moment had finally come—

Until Sebastian spun out of the way with a practiced grace, then landed a deep slash on Jace's left thigh. Having not expected the tables to turn on him so soon, Jace could only let out an aggravated yell as a sharp, stinging pain flared through his open wound. Within seconds, blood was gushing out— _fast!_ —and causing him to feel slightly light-headed.

Meanwhile, Sebastian was celebrating, fathomless black eyes screaming: _"I've got you now!"_

Jace quickly swapped his sword to his less dominant hand—his right hand—as Sebastian tried to capitalize on his injury, sheer relentlessness pouring off of him in tumultuous waves. It was almost as if the sight, and possibly _scent_ , of his enemy's blood had awakened the unforgiving beast inside of him; a crazed, wicked look gleamed in his black eyes as he hurled offense after offense, forcing Jace to remain on the defense.

 _I won't last much longer with this,_ he realized grimly as he deflected Sebastian's blows, willing himself to not think of the burning pain in his thigh.

At a last-ditch attempt fueled purely by adrenaline, Jace executed a front flip over his opponent, and upon landing, he drove his boot into Sebastian's back, sending him skidding forward and causing his gaudy helmet to fly off his head. Then, just as Sebastian spun around, Jace darted forward and slashed three deep neat lines across his exposed face, forming the letter _H:_ for Herondale.

Sebastian screamed, callused fingers shakily raising to touch his mildly disfigured face. Now, he no longer looked quite as smug, but instead, appeared to be enraged and humiliated.

"What have you done? Do you realize what you've done?!" He yelled furiously.

His own agony temporarily forgotten, Jace smiled in dark satisfaction. _An eye for an eye. That's for my wife, you arrogant swine._ "I do," he replied, an undercurrent of venom in his voice. "I have done _exactly_ what I've promised you this morning." A knowing look passed over his face, and his golden eyes glistened, piercing like a deadly knife. "So that no matter the outcome of this match… _You'll always bear a permanent reminder of me._ "

As the familiarity of the statement registered in his eyes, the depraved young king let out an enraged yell. So blinded by his ire, he impetuously charged for Jace's left leg, blade at the ready. But with timely reflexes, the gladiator managed to roll out of the way and into a crouch, leaving the former's weapon to slice uselessly at the sand instead.

The next minute passed by in slow motion…

Before Sebastian could comprehend the danger, Jace rose to his full height behind him. He drew his blade backward, and with one quick, vicious thrust, he sank the blade through Sebastian's back, the sharp tip protruding through the front of his armor.

Jace heard Sebastian give one loud gasp before he slowly turned around, his soulless black eyes wide with shock and his open mouth spilling with dark streams of blood.

 _"There's a place on a man's back where, if you sink a blade in, you can pierce his heart and sever his spine, all at once,"_ Michael's voice echoed in his mind.

Numbly, he took a step backward, oblivious to the deafening cheers of the people as they rejoiced over his victory. He watched as Sebastian's knees buckled and he collapsed, facedown onto the ground, the sword still sticking grotesquely out of his body.

For some inexplicable reason that defied the perseverance in his labor, Jace could do nothing else except to stare at the corpse, disbelieved. His chest squeezed, then exploded with an array of conflicting emotions: relief, shock, happiness, confusion…and even _guilt_.

Yes, this was the outcome that he had strived for—he had believed that his reasons for killing Sebastian were justified; but all the same, was it right to rejoice over the death of another, even if he had seemingly deserved everything that was coming to him?

Letting out a shaky breath, Jace finally averted his gaze to the dais, and his heart immediately soared. Clary was on her feet and leaning over the balustrade, smiling proudly down at him—and that was all the reason he needed to smile, too. Whatever he may come around to feeling about Sebastian's death later, it would not tarnish the fact that he had done it in order to protect his wife from the would-be cruel machinations of the scourge, to keep her _safe_ —

As if Jace had spoken too soon, Valentine suddenly reappeared on the dais next to his daughter, an infuriated scowl donning his face. He shoved the princess back, then began yelling like a madman: "Archers! Archers! I WANT MY BLOODY ARCHERS!"

Jace had never felt the tides turn against him so quickly—again.

Helplessly, he watched as Valentine's firing squad began charging in from all four gates, their arrows set in their bows, ready to shoot him down at their king's command. Around that same moment, his heart began to sink to somewhere within the vicinity of his stomach.

 _Surrounded._ He was completely and utterly surrounded, like a mouse trapped inside of a booby-trapped fortress, which walls were steadily closing in on him. One wrong move, and arrows would be sent flying prematurely—and straight into him. Jace wanted, desperately, to believe that there was another way out of this situation, but he knew that believing such a thing would require him to admit to being slow on the uptake—which he wasn't. There was _no way out._

 _I'm sorry, Clary,_ he thought as he dropped his sword and raised both hands in the universal sign of surrender. _I wish you could have been spared the mercy of not having to watch my execution. I wish this didn't have to happen in front of you. Please do me a favor… Look away, my love._

Planting his hands behind his head, Jace closed his eyes and waited, praying in spite of his resignation for another miracle. After all he had gone through, he wanted to believe that this was not the end. _Not yet—_ at least, not by Valentine's firing squad.

In his heart, he knew that he deserved one more match—against the man who had started it all, who had slain his family and countless others in his mad quest for power. Even if the people possessed no such knowledge of the heinous deeds their king had committed, surely they weren't blind to true colors: the nauseating yellowish tint of a coward that was no more apparent that it was now.

 _Please!_

To Valentine's discredit and Jace's consolation, the people's chants quickly evolved into outraged protests against the king's unwarranted order to execute the gladiator. A few of the bolder enthusiasts were even beginning to pelt the dais with an assortment of rotten fruits and vegetables: tomatoes, cabbages, eggs and just about anything else at their disposal.

Startled by the people's belligerent reaction, Valentine could do no more than to raise his arms as he tried to shield himself from the ruthless onslaught. The greater the protests grew, the more obvious it became for all to see that the king's oft-unruffled façade was slipping. It was a sight Jace had dreamed of seeing for so long: to watch as his enemy, the high-handed, arrogant king being reduced to a social pariah while the people stood behind him— _with him_.

Now was his moment to strike.

 _Check-mate, Your Lordship._

"VALENTINE MORGENSTERN!" Jace yelled in a tone that commanded both respect and attention. Silence fell over the arena as every pair of eyes were fixated on the gladiator, the only man who has dared to publicly call out the Idrisian king. "I, _JACE HERONDALE_ ," he enunciated his name, eliciting gasps and murmurs from the crowd, "the former prince of Idris, hereby challenge _you_ to a fight to the death!"

Jace removed his helmet and hurled it to the ground—and for the first time in a long time, finally allowed his true identity to show.

The crowd reacted the way Jace knew they would: everyone began speaking at the same time, their expressions conveying complete, unadulterated shock and disbelief. Jace himself could not make out any of the exchange, but he _did_ comprehend the repetitive ramblings of one word. A name. His name. _Herondale._

Valentine's sharp, mirthless laugh was the sound that surprisingly managed to silence the loud chatters. "I owe you no such thing, _slave_! You are nothing but a poser! A pretender! The Herondales are all dead!" He shouted. "And _you_ , for the simple fact that you have not only dared to deceive the people, but have also dared to challenge _my rule…_ you have forfeited your chances for mercy," Valentine furiously decreed.

Just as the white-haired king extended his right hand, a shimmer of red materialized on the dais. Jace sucked in a breath as Clary rammed her body against her father's much bigger frame, the action doing little to sway the king off his balance.

"NO! JACE!" Clary screamed.

"Stay out of this, you worthless little wench!" Roughly clutching his daughter's upper-arm, Valentine dragged her away from the parapet, then hurled her as if she were a javelin.

Several gasps of horror echoed throughout the arena as the princess's slight body collided into the heavy chairs with a resounding crash—then remained frighteningly still.

Jace, for all his confidence, grew cold with worry for his wife. _Why isn't she moving?_ He wondered. Then— _Please, please, please, be alive!_ The thought of otherwise was unbearable, so much so that his vision turned red.

"Valentine!" Jace screamed lividly. "Stop sending your men to do all your dirty work for you! If you're a real man, then come down here and face me like one!"

Valentine didn't respond, though his expression grew exceedingly dark and contemplative, as if he were considering Jace's challenge. But the moment quickly passed, and despite the people's continued protests, he stretched his right hand over the balustrade, the thumb sticking out of his fist, and held it in a neutral stance—neither pointing upwards nor downwards.

Jace knew what it meant. He had witnessed it several times over in his previous gladiator games, although it had never been at the expense of his own life. If Valentine were to merit him with a thumbs-up, his life would be spared. But if he were to be given a thumbs-down, he would be executed.

Jace steeled himself, knowing without a shred of doubt in his mind that Valentine's decision would likely be the latter.

 _"You coward!"_

 _"He's right!"_

 _"Face him!"_

 _"You deserve to die!"_

 _"Get down there and face him!"_

 _"HERONDALE! HERONDALE! HERONDALE!"_

The sound of his real name being chanted with such passion filled Jace with a renewed sense of hope and acceptance he thought he had long ago lost. Regardless of what became of him, he was finally, truly _free_ —no longer subjected to the mask that gave him the name Shadowhunter. No longer an outsider, exiled from his home. His people believed him, not Valentine. And if he died, Valentine would have a riot on his hands—a nation of anarchists who would no longer surrender their loyalties to his authority.

Jace smirked at the white-haired fiend. " _Go ahead_ ,"he mouthed to him, arms extended in a blatant display of defiance and contempt. _Go ahead,_ he chanted in his mind. _Go ahead and kill me. Make me their martyr. Give the people the fuel they need to kill you._

Sweat trickled down Valentine's forehead, and his hand shook, the subtlest of shivers, visible only to him. He would never admit it but he knew that even now—even as the gladiator stood tall and very much alive in his arena—he had lost. After all, this was no ordinary gladiator he was staring down, but Jace Herondale _,_ the fallen prince of Idris.

Valentine remembered the early days, of how his loathed predecessor, Stephen Herondale, had amassed a group of loyalists so great that his attempts to lead a smooth transition into his rule were continually met with revolt and objection. Eventually, he saw no other solution than to exterminate the threats, if only to realize the ideals of _peace_ he sought for his kingdom. Herondale, a name once uttered and revered, died along with the people who loved them.

How could it be that now, when he had only begun to relish in the golden age of his rule, could they turn away from him and chant the name of those swindling traitors?

Concede? _No, never._

Not to a filthy gladiator.

Not to a Herondale.

Plastering on a cold smirk, Valentine stuck his hand out further, decision already made. But in a stunning turn of events, he was interrupted by a flash of white, and another hand was thrust next to his, his thumb pointing upwards.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the execution squad held down their arms and retreated, and Valentine turned his head towards the man who had dared to intervene, taking in his similar build, the features and hair that were the exact same as his own.

But there was one thing that set them both apart—their eyes.

The man bore a pair of eyes as bright as emeralds, the same as his own mother, as his own sister. The man was his own flesh and blood…his son.

Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Another cliffhanger, one psychopath dead, and welcome back, Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!**_

 _ **Old readers, while there were no major changes to the events of this chapter, I still** **rewrote almost every other sentence in this chapter, just for the sake of improving the previous language/structure I had issues with. Besides that,**_ _ **I also added in a new flashback scene (of course, I have a knack for those because I love touching on the mother-son relationship between Jace and Celine. Even though the time they spent together was short, Jace's mother played a very integral role in influencing him, in a largely good way. And I thought, well, even though the topic discussed was a very somber one, it**_ **is** _ **something you would expect Jace, no matter how young he may be, to bring it up. He likes asking all the hard questions, the ever curious and precocious one).**_

 _ **Moving on to the 'improved' fight scene between Jace and Sebastian**_ _ **—I hope you guys liked it.** **It** **really**_ _**was, or rather,**_ **is** _ **one of the most challenging things for me to write, so I hope I did an OK job. Of course, the way Jace killed Sebastian in the end was inspired by City of Glass, so again, credits to Cassie.**_

 _ **p.s. if you're a Star Wars fan (like I am), then you would know that the advice that slipped into Jace's head mid-fight from Michael ('here and now') was inspired by the Jedi character Qui-Gon Jinn.**_

* * *

 _ **The final showdown which you all have been waiting for is coming...next! Just gotta tell you though, it's not going to be an emotionally easy read, and unfortunately, some of you are going to hate me.**_

 _ **Are tissues required next chapter? Definitely.**_

 _ **Until then, pretty please review and let me know what you think!**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	25. Chapter 23: It All Comes Full Circle

_**Author's Note: Greetings, lovelies! Yes, I am alive.**_

 _ **I apologize if this update took me more than a month, but I was busier than usual AND I completely underestimated the amount of work I needed to put into revising this chapter. At first, I thought that the way I originally wrote for this chapter was relatively decent, then reading through it, my mind changed and the editing became...extensive. Whole scenes, dialogues, etc. have been rewritten, but if you're an old reader, you'll realize the essence of the chapter, as is the case for previous chapters, is still the same.**_

 _ **HEADS-UP for new readers. This is a massive, emotionally-charged chapter. Nevertheless, hope you enjoy and review!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 23: IT ALL COMES FULL CIRCLE**

 **December 30, 508 _(Part III)_**

Cold, rigid tension hung in the air as the Morgenstern king and his son stared each other down, the former's widened charcoal eyes a sharp contrast to his son's spring-green ones—bottomless, black pits that swirled like an unforgiving portal into the deepest, darkest trenches of the earth, where light was scarcely found, and the existence of life probably more so.

Around them, the people chattered amongst themselves unreservedly, ambivalent rumors spilling from their lips as they watched the confrontation unfolding before them on the dais, the words 'treason', 'savior' and 'execute' a frequent utterance. But the staredown came to a swift and abrupt end when the king's fury spurred him to action.

Viciously yanking Jonathan by the front of his tunic, he began yelling madly, his formerly smug visage now flushed with an undisputed look of anger and hot betrayal.

"What do you think you're doing? Sparing the enemy! Where is your honor? Your loyalty?!"

To his credit, Jonathan appeared unfazed by the older man's tirade. "My loyalties lie with my family. With my sister, and with my _brother_ ," he replied calmly, but with just as much confidence and authority packed into his tone. Valentine opened his mouth to bite back a retort but Jonathan quickly cut him off, his green eyes narrowed at the man he had once blindingly pledged loyalty to, if only by the virtue of his parental title. "The man whom you wish to kill is as much as my own brother as Clarissa is my sister," he said.

Valentine laughed bitterly as he curled his fingers tighter into Jonathan's tunic, the harsh pressure enough to rip the material. "Brother? Brother?" He echoed mockingly. "You fool! He is planning to take away _my_ throne! _Your_ throne! And yet you claim him to be your brother? He will destroy you—just as his father had long ago tried to destroy me!"

Jonathan shoved his father away from him, resulting in a violent tear down the front of his own tunic. His green eyes hardened, but not over his mangled clothing. In fact, he'd barely even glanced down at it. "Speak for yourself, Valentine," he retaliated, daring himself to raise his voice. His father's face reddened even further, no doubt enraged by his son's insolent address of him. For the first time in his life, Jonathan had called him by _name_ , not Father, or Your Majesty, or even King. Such disrespect was bordering closely on sedition, a crime punishable by his law. "If anything, _you_ brought this upon yourself," Jonathan continued without compunction. "When are you going to start admitting to your own sins instead of blaming the Herondales?"

"Oh, how very noble of you, traitorous son of mine, to be pontificating about sins!" Valentine laughed. In a split second, his mirth was gone, leaving in its place a look of barely tamed anger. His chest rose, as did his index finger, which he pointed in his son's face as if it were a deadly weapon. "You're a foolish idealist. You know _nothing_!"

Hurt crossed Jonathan's features for a flash of a second, but he quickly smoothed it over with a tight smile that conveyed his disdain over the irony. "Oh no, Milord," Jonathan replied calmly. "On the contrary, I now know far too much. _Too much._ " He shook his head, then lowered his voice to a hushed murmur. "Regardless of who you are to me, Father, I cannot, and shall not, allow myself to feign ignorance over the atrocities that you have committed…as many others whom you've elected in your power have done before. I have a duty to my people, and a duty to _you_ —one I fear I would fail more miserably at if I chose to stand by your side."

Father and son locked eyes, the former burning with murderous rage, while the latter was silently but sincerely imploring for understanding.

"Please do not misunderstand. I am _not_ betraying you. I only want…to _help_ you."

That was the wrong thing to say, Jonathan realized too late. His father didn't want to be helped, for he saw no wrong in any of his actions—past or present.

"I DO NOT NEED YOUR HELP!" Valentine yelled lividly. Then, as if shouting weren't an adequate expression of his rage, he made a lunge for his son, thick-veined hands wrapping dangerously around his throat.

Jonathan's eyes bulged with shock, having not expected the attack. Instinctively, he tried to force his father into relinquishing his grasp, but the older man was resilient in his rage. He squeezed, and Jonathan wheezed desperately as black spots began to cloud his vision. The people watched on in complete disbelief, but none dared to move as they watched their king strangle his firstborn son and heir…the would-be king of Idris.

Finally, reprieve came in the form of Patrick Penhallow, who blasted the deranged king with a powerful swing to the back using an iron bar—where it came from, Jonathan had no idea, but he was most relieved to be free of the pressure on his throat. Stumbling towards the balustrade, he clung onto the handrail and began to dry-heave.

Valentine, on the other hand, found himself on his hands and knees as a combination of pain and anger surged through his body. Within the next moment, he was being surrounded and restrained by his own guards, who had seemingly decided to partake in a coup against him— _Curse them all!_ He thought as he tried to overpower them, but couldn't. There were at least eight of them, their swords drawn and pointing to his neck. He subtly aimed for his belt, but was met with a resounding wave of frustration when he realized that his own sword was nowhere within reach, having left it on a stand by his throne. _Fool!_

"On your feet. Slowly," Patrick Penhallow commanded him, as if their roles were reversed and _he_ , Valentine Morgenstern, was the subordinate instead of the king.

Huffing, Valentine rose up on his knees first, then slowly assumed a standing position. His back was screaming in agony from the audacious Consul's assault, but he forced himself to not let it show. He glared at his guards, whose faces were covered by their helmets, as they continued to fence him in, with swords no less, like a lowly criminal. He would kill every single one of these traitors, he silently promised. Starting with _Jocelyn's son_ and his accomplices.

"You have nerve, Penhallow," he grumbled in a menacing tone, "Coming to _my_ dais unannounced and then attacking me from behind! How dare _you_ —How _dare_ you attack the king and rightful ruler of Idris and then turn my own guards against me?!" Valentine roared.

Patrick raised his hand to silence the outraged man. "Spare me the diatribe, Milord. As of this moment, your words shall no longer bear any weight against any citizen of Idris." Patrick inhaled a deep breath, then announced in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

"By my authority as the Consul of Idris…Valentine Morgenstern, you are hereby stripped of your title of 'King'. Henceforth, you shall answer to the Clave and its new King for crimes committed against Idris and her people."

Ignoring the crowd's thunderous cheers at Patrick's statement, Valentine _pounced_ —or at least, tried to. His anger flared anew when he realized that there was no way of accomplishing what he intended to do without the risk of mortally injuring himself. He settled for screaming again, this time, spittle flying everywhere with every furious word that he spoke.

"You have no such authority to deny me my birthright! YOU ARE BENEATH ME!"

Patrick gave him a repugnant look, but before he could retaliate, a recovering Jonathan interrupted. "No, Father," the prince spoke in a slightly raspy voice as he gently rubbed at his throat. Valentine turned his glare on him. "I have studied the Royal Accords— _thoroughly_. The Accords state, that even the will of the King can be overcome under special circumstances…and for the greater good of the people. That is why royal councils, such as the Clave, exist. There is no such thing as absolute immunity, even for a monarch. _Especially_ ," Jonathan stressed, "when the King is found guilty of treasonous acts against his own kingdom."

Valentine's face turned purple. "Why, you _insolent_ —"

"Enough!" Patrick intervened in an authoritative tone. "Valentine Morgenstern, you shall hold your peace until you are called upon to plead for your crimes. Any attempts to speak otherwise and I shall have you gagged immediately."

It was visible for all to see that ex-king was struggling to keep his words to himself, but at the threat of being muzzled was enough to keep him subdued, however temporarily.

"Citizens of Idris," Patrick addressed the murmuring spectators, "I understand that these turn of events have caused you great confusion and distress. But rest assured," he nodded towards Jonathan, "His Highness Prince Jonathan, and I, along with my fellow councilmen, have secured ample evidence to impeach Valentine Morgenstern from the throne." At this, several council members joined them on the balcony, wearing equally solemn looks.

"My friends, we have been deceived by a man who has promised us so much, but indeed, done little to keep his word. Valentine Morgenstern," Patrick said, pointing to the indictee, "is not a man to be trusted. He is more aptly described as an ambitious tyrant whose actions thus far have been motivated by selfish means to secure his own power, and whose crimes number from embezzlement, rape, homicide, and even genocide." Patrick stepped towards the centre of the balustrade, then pulled out a book—Valentine realized with barely masked panic to be his _diary_ —from the inner pocket of his outer garment. "And I have the proof of his crimes right here in my hands. Valentine's own personal recounts," he clarified.

Flipping the diary open to a bookmarked page, Patrick glanced over his shoulder at Jonathan, seeking his permission, and was rewarded with an approving nod.

Patrick began to read:

 _"_ ** _January 1, 500 —_** _Stephen Herondale is finally dead, and I can easily say that I have never felt this content before. I remember the look on that scoundrel's face just before I killed him—how he had looked at me in fear, how his eyes had silently begged me to spare him for the sake of his wife and his son. He deserved no mercy after all his past transgressions. Immediately after slaughtering Stephen, I ordered my men to dismember his body and to dump his remains at various locations within the Forbidden Forest—where he truly belongs. He deserved no funeral, much less a king's funeral… And he deserved to not have his own grave._

 _"And as for Celine, I am thoroughly satisfied with the time that I had spent ravishing her. It was the best I had been with any woman, and I had enjoyed hearing her scream when I took her roughly. If only she had chosen me instead of Stephen… Maybe then I would have spared her instead of killing her in front of her weakling son, that disgusting spawn of a Herondale. I have made sure that his life will be an endless suffering, one which he will spend as a worthless slave—as his father should have been._

 _"Yes, all my patience has finally paid off and everything is finally coming full circle. Everything is finally mine again. As new era beckons, I promise to bring new change to Idris—once I am officially crowned the new king tomorrow. After those loyal to Stephen have been eliminated for good, I will begin the construction of a brand-new arena, where I will put on the best gladiator games that the world has ever seen."_

Patrick paused momentarily to look at Valentine, who appeared to be in absolute shock and was struggling to formulate a coherent sentence. Taking advantage of the white-haired fiend's speechless state, he proceeded to a much more recent entry.

 _"_ ** _April 4, 502_** _— The first gladiator games have only recently passed, and I have to say, it was an amazing success. My sentiments had been right—the Idrisians had loved the games and are looking forward to the next one! However, most of the kingdom's capital had been used up for the construction of the arena. There is an urgent need to replenish our resources if we're to organize the second games in time. I wrote to King Alfred early this week to seek his advice for a solution to the problem. He has suggested that I collect more taxes from the people and I agree. This is only but a small price to pay in contribution to a much bigger cause."_

Finally, the crowd exploded into a riotous chaos, their harmless prattle evolving into livid yells and insults. Valentine, a picture of storming emotions, was immediately roused from his silence.

"LIES!" He yelled angrily—but also desperately. "YOU SLANDERING TRAITORS!" When no one would be moved to his cause, Valentine turned back to his son and the council members, now joined by his newly conscious daughter— _Another traitor_ , Valentine thought, cursing his dead wife for bearing him such mutinous children.

"You may have converted my guards into joining your pathetic coup, but don't you forget— _I_ have the power of the army of Idris _and_ Alicante behind me," Valentine seethed.

Patrick shook his head. "Lest _you_ forget, Valentine, you are no longer the king. That title belongs to your son," he gestured towards Jonathan. "And you are gravely mistaken if you believe that Alicante's troops will ally themselves with you either. The Accords also clearly state, that in the event a king without an heir falls in battle, then the next to ascend the throne is the person who defeated said king in the first place. Allow me to reacquaint you with the new king of Alicante," Patrick waved his hand towards the golden-haired gladiator who was still standing in the middle of the arena, now shocked into silence. "King Jace Herondale."

Valentine glanced at his enemy's son, and visibly paled. It must be a cruel trick of the universe to award the title of king to another undeserving _Herondale_. Oh, how he detested that name. He should have killed the boy a long time ago, just as he had his parents. But then again, how could he have known that his past mistakes would come back to haunt him like this? The edges of his vision burned red…

"And now, to the terms of your punishment."

Valentine scowled. "I refuse to concede."

"You have no choice," Jonathan said, deciding to take the reins this time. His eyes met Jace's, a silent agreement passing between them. "Valentine," he said heavily, "You have committed numerous crimes against Idris and her people, not excluding crimes against your own children." Tears glistened in his eyes as he thought of what his own father had done to his beloved mother. "I forgive you, for as far as you have wronged _me_. But that is as far as I can extend you mercy."

"I have no need of your forgiveness," Valentine scoffed.

With a nod, Jonathan swallowed and forced himself to remain stoic. "My council members and I have agreed, unanimously, that the only suitable penalty for you is execution," he said. "However, you will neither be facing a firing squad, nor a headsman…" He trailed off, once more glancing at his brother-in-law.

Without the need for any prompting, the meaning was clear to Valentine. His son, undoubtedly driven by empathy, compassion and a self-righteous sense of justice, would pawn him off to the Herondale boy, and they would duel to the death…

"Instead, you will be facing Jace in a fair match," Jonathan confirmed in grudging tone. "It is what my brother wants, and so I shall honor it."

Oh, what _joyful_ news indeed! Valentine thought, genuinely brightening at the prospect. Fool that his misguided and overly sentimental son was, he had unknowingly gifted him with the opportunity to seek his revenge. He would finish off the Herondale boy with his own hands, as he should have done years ago, and then he would take the throne to Alicante.

Valentine smirked.

 _May the best man win._

* * *

Jace sighed wearily as he slumped back onto the pathetic excuse of a bench, the pain from the deep wound on his left thigh making him feel more irritable than usual. "You shouldn't be here, Clary," he found himself groaning, for quite possibly the fiftieth time in a row.

His wife glared at him as she moved to sit next to him. Without warning, she reached for his wound and began applying pressure to it using a warm, wet cloth. Jace yelped.

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't be doing, Jace Herondale," she scolded him. "Just because you're the new king of Alicante doesn't mean that you can order me around…"

Clenching his fists hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Jace let out an unmanly whimper. "Bloody Sebastard," he muttered grudgingly.

Taking his reaction with concern, Clary chucked the cloth aside to reveal the bleeding laceration. "Well…it doesn't look _too_ bad," she offered, trying to sound optimistic.

Jace raised his brow, disbelieving. He knew that Clary's observation wasn't quite a lie—he had endured worse injuries before and survived. But an injury was still an injury, and he was in pain, no matter what anyone, his wife included, told him.

"It hurts, Clare," Jace gritted out as said wife began rummaging through a briefcase he recognized to be Magnus's.

"I know, honey," Clary said softly as she turned back to face him. She briefly abandoned her initial task, running her hands through the soft strands of Jace's sweaty blond locks.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her stomach, subconsciously planting a soft kiss on it. Turning his head a little, Jace eyed the opened briefcase again.

"Why do you have Magnus's things with you?" He asked with furrowed brows.

Clary knelt before him on the ground, reaching for a bottle of wine and some bandages to clean up his wounds. "It's his spare. Magnus would have tended to you himself, but he had to go off to answer an emergency distress call at the Idrisian borders," she answered, looking worried.

Jace drew her chin up so that their eyes met, and he stroked her cheek comfortingly.

"Some of Sebastian's staunch followers broke into Idris the moment they received word that Sebastian was dead. They attacked the guards, vandalized the market square…" Clary explained, sounding a little flustered. "But last I heard before coming down here, things are sort of under control now… They've managed to dispatch enough men to handle the rioters… Magnus is helping the wounded, and a messenger from Idris—one of Patrick's men—has been sent to the court in Alicante to address the situation."

Jace nodded, taking in the information attentively. "What's bothering you then?"

Clary sighed before resting her forehead on his uninjured thigh. "You," she admitted truthfully before looking up at him. "I'm worried for you. Sebastian's dead but this entire mess is far from over. In fact, it's _worse_. I'm worried about how the rest of the people in Alicante will take the news of you being their new king. What if they hate you so much and decide to come after you themselves?" Clary said, gesticulating wildly.

Jace swallowed hard at Clary's words, understanding deeply the reasons for her own distress. Every part of him hated their situation, and even more so the fact that he was the cause of his wife's anxiety. Being announced the new king of Alicante was both unexpected and unwanted. When Jace had walked into the arena to fight against Sebastian, it had never once crossed his mind that he could walk out of the match as Sebastian's successor. He knew little about running a kingdom, despite having spent his early years studying about the role and watching his own father do it. He didn't know if he was even an appropriate candidate for the job.

"We'll worry about that later," he finally said. "For now, I have to deal with Valentine first."

"That's another thing I don't understand," his wife replied, now in a slightly angry tone. "Why can't you just leave it to the headsman to deal with my father's execution? Why do _you_ need to be the one to face him? You just faced Sebastian and barely managed to walk out of it," she said, alluding to his injury, "I just don't understand why you have to tempt fate by facing my father next. The executioners are trained to do their jobs well enough—"

Jace closed his eyes and sighed. "It's not something I can make you understand, my love."

"But you're making a mistake by putting a sword in my father's hand—by giving him a _chance_ to defend himself," Clary pointed out. "If you _must_ be the one to kill him, then why do such a thing? He could kill you, Jace. I have no doubt he will try his very best to kill you."

"I will be fine."

"You don't know that," Clary said, resenting his dismissive reply. "Don't you care about me at all? Are you so consumed in your need for revenge that you would cast my feelings aside, despite knowing how terrified I am that you will die?"

Jace finally opened his eyes and looked at his wife, his heart skewered by the anguished look she gave him. "Of course I care about you, sweetheart," he said softly. "I am not doing this because I want to hurt you, or because I want revenge. I'm doing this because I want _justice_ —and to honor my parents by killing your father in the same way he killed mine. In a _duel_." He released another fatigued sigh. "Perhaps none of it makes sense to you, but that's just the way I feel about it. I just can't bring myself to kill him unless I have fought him in a fair match. Please…try to understand."

Clary found it hard to understand. She wasn't a warrior like her husband was. It was difficult to try to see things from his perspective, and even more difficult to accept his decision because of how much she loved him and was afraid of losing him.

"I will _try_ ," she whispered, "As long as you promise to be careful."

Jace kissed his wife's hand in turn. "You have my word."

* * *

"Your Majesty!"

The sound of the familiar voice made Valentine pause in his tracks. As he turned towards the entrance of the holding cell he was currently occupying, he noticed his lackey and Royal Advisor Hodge Starkweather clutching the iron bars and staring at him with an alarmed and frantic look on his face. Valentine sighed. It was just his luck that the only person who chose to remain loyal to him, despite his humiliating public dethronement, was a lackey who was bookishly smart but a complete fool where it mattered. Indeed, Starkweather might have been his personally appointed right-hand man, but only because he took to his role as a marionette extremely well and carried out his bidding without question.

"Starkweather," he acknowledged without much effort. "What brings you here?"

Starkweather glanced over his shoulders at the two guards that were currently posted outside the cell and leveled them both with a look Valentine supposed was meant to be intimidating. "Open this door at once!" He commanded.

"We do not take orders from you," one of the guards replied stiffly.

"Unless you wish to join the prisoner in the arena, please leave at once," the other added.

Hodge visibly fumed. "Very well," he finally decided. "Open this door so that I may join him."

Valentine sighed when the guards complied with his lackey's request to join him in the cell. Walking towards the other gated entrance at the opposite end of the cell, he crossed his arms and leaned against the cold iron bars, staring pensively at the empty battlefield outside.

It was one thing to view the battlefield from a spectator's angle, and quite another to look at it from the perspective of a gladiator or a prisoner. That wasn't to say that Valentine was afraid—oh, no. He knew his own prowess as a fighter and was more than certain that he would be able to defeat Herondale. He had more years and experience on his side, whereas Herondale, as impressive as he was, only had two years of arena-fighting under his belt. It was of no doubt, in this instance, who the superior and would-be champion was.

"Your Majesty," Starkweather approached him. "Are you all right?"

Valentine huffed at the question, unimpressed, and frankly, irritated by his lackey's line of questioning. Not for the first time, he cursed Hodge Starkweather, spineless bootlicker that he was, for wasting his time with such frivolous friendly overtures. Did the man not understand that he had no care for sentiment? _What a fool!_

"I confronted your son earlier, Milord. We had words," Starkweather continued, oblivious to the fact that Valentine had no interest in anything he had to say. "I cannot believe his treachery! To think, that after all you have done to raise him, that he would not only betray you, but to cast you aside to the enemy! Your Majesty—"

"Enough, Starkweather," Valentine snapped, turning his cold hard gaze to the ranting man. "I do not want to hear another word about the boy. He is dead to me."

Hodge bowed, subdued. "I apologize, Your Majesty."

"Was that all that came here for? To tell me about how you confronted Jocelyn's son?" He asked, turning his back on the timid man.

"N-no, M-Milord."

"I see," Valentine replied in an acerbic tone. "Did you confront Jocelyn's treacherous daughter as well?" The thought of the girl, Jocelyn's lookalike, made him clench his hands in fury. Between his son and his daughter, he wasn't sure who was worse. The boy who conspired with his councilmen to overthrow him, breaking and entering his study room and stealing his diary to boot, or the girl who had boldly married Herondale's son behind his back. They were every bit their mother's children, he thought bitterly. Disloyal. Mutinous. Traitors. He should have killed them both from the start.

"Milord?"

Valentine reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the arena to glare at the other man. "What?"

Whether out of bravery or sheer stupidity, Starkweather traipsed the distance between them before procuring a sheathed dagger from his belt and presenting it to the former king.

"A dagger?" Valentine scoffed dismissively. "I already have a sword, Starkweather."

"But it isn't just _any_ dagger, Milord," Starkweather whispered in a conspiratorial tone. He glanced over his shoulder, and to both their surprises, found that the two guards were no longer there. "I laced this dagger with poison. _Batrachotoxin_ , to be precise."

As the name were an incantation that awoke him from his foul mood, Valentine's eyes immediately widened. He had studied up enough on poisons to recognize that _Batrachotoxin_ was among the deadliest poisons in the world. Secreted by a certain species of lethal frogs, the venom could induce paralysis and even cause its victims heart failure. It would be remiss of him to reject Starkweather's gift, even if he was confident in his singular abilities to kill Herondale.

No, there was certainly no harm in being _extra_ -prepared. Perhaps, if the match was getting too dull and tedious for him, he could just take a swipe at Herondale with the dagger to end things, once and for all. Then he would watch as the poison took effect…

Valentine smiled. Perhaps Starkweather wasn't as hopeless as he thought he was. Valentine certainly had not expected such level of cunning initiative from his flunkey. He was…impressed. "You have done well, my friend," he praised.

* * *

"God, please! Not another Morgenstern!"

"Such a warm welcome, brother dearest."

"Go away!"

Jonathan quirked an eyebrow as his brother-in-law turned his back on him, probably hoping that he would take heed and leave him alone. _Fat chance._

Jace sighed as Jonathan strode up next to him, eyeing the arena as he had been doing earlier, before the latter's arrival. "Did you see Clary earlier?" He asked, deciding that it was pointless to order the white-haired prince—no, _king—_ to leave before he had made his intentions known.

"I did," Jon replied. "And she's very unhappy with you."

"As expected." Jace barely hid his wince as he remembered his wife's forced departure from the cells, courtesy of Isabelle and Simon. It was just as well when they showed up to retrieve her when they did; his stubborn wife had been adamant that she be allowed to accompany him to the arena, which had sparked a very long argument between the couple. Then partway through, Jace had made a near-fatal mistake by calling his wife "irrational", which only made her even more upset. He sincerely hoped that she wouldn't hold it against him _if_ he died.

Shaking off the thought, he turned to regard his brother. "Tell me, Jon. Are you here to pull off another Clary-patented stunt and insist that you come with me to the arena?"

Jon's only response was a smile.

"Why? Why do you siblings insist on putting yourselves in danger like this?"

"That's very hypocritical of you to say, don't you think?" Jon said through narrowed eyes. "You put yourself in danger by challenging my father to a duel."

"I've been through this with Clary already. I can't just kill him without a fair fight," Jace replied wearily. "My father fought him. My mother did, too. And so will I…" He trailed off, bracing himself against the iron bars. "I don't expect you to understand."

Beside him, Jon stiffened. "No," he said stiltedly, "He killed _my_ mother, too. Of course I don't understand." The sarcasm was so palpable that it forced Jace to turn his head away in shame.

"That wasn't what I meant," he said quietly as he stared at the ground. "Besides, I thought you told Valentine that you've already forgiven him for that?"

There was a long pause as Jonathan mulled over Jace's question.

"I…I told my father that I forgive him for that he's done to _me_ …for the abuse…" He said with a shake of his head. "But I haven't forgiven him for what he did to my mother. The thought of it still sickens me! It's one thing to know that your mother was murdered. It's another to know that your father was the one responsible for it!" He was breathing heavily by now. "To look into the mirror and see his face staring back at you, knowing how twisted he is…and how easily you can turn out to be just like _him_ … That is something _you_ won't understand, Jace."

 _No, it isn't,_ Jace thought, remembering his own parents and of how much they had loved each other. In that regard, Jonathan hadn't been as fortunate as he had. He couldn't imagine it if their roles were reversed; if he'd had a despotic father instead of a loving one. However, he could sympathize with Jon's pain. It certainly couldn't be easy to carve a path that was completely different from one's parent, to choose to live by principles that were polar opposites of one another…in essence, to be each other's enemy.

"That doesn't explain why you feel the need to stand by my side during my match with your father. What exactly are you planning to do, Jon? To avenge your mother, as well?"

At that, Jonathan appeared confused and a little more than conflicted. "No. No, of course not," he said, looking down at his shaking hands. "That is one line I know I don't want to cross. He is my father, regardless. I don't want to kill him." He clenched them into fists before looking up at Jace, this time, determinedly. "But I do want to protect you."

Jace smiled wanly at him. "I don't need protecting, Jon. Besides, you're a diplomat, not a warrior. The battlefield is no place for you. Stay with Clary."

Jace turned away, hoping that Jon would leave for good, but the newly announced king's next words stopped him cold.

"Have I ever told you about my brother, Jace?"

One second passed. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds.

The gladiator finally managed to stammer out a disbelieved "What?"

"My brother," Jonathan repeated. "He probably would have been just over a year older than Clary…but he _died_ …due to complications during childbirth…" His green eyes met Jace's, but they were glazed over with a far-away look. "It was my fault, did you know? My mother went into an early and difficult labor because of me." He swallowed. "He died because of _me_ …"

Finally taking notice of the deep circles marring the bottom of his brother-in-law's eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, and the pallidness of his complexion, Jace wondered how long Jon had been suffering in silence—how long he had been putting himself through the self-blame.

Jace was no stranger to it either; he knew how unbelievably taxing it could be to be burdened by situations that were, rightfully, beyond the reach of his own control. Being a gladiator had taught him as much, that no one really had full control over _when_ or _how_ they died. That was a hard fact of life that he'd come to accept—although the lesson was never quite fully grasped. Every time he thought of his dead parents, he would be overcome with a rush of guilt, borne of the knowledge that he was still alive while they weren't. He came to know it as survivor's guilt.

Jace wanted to reassure the man he had come to regard as his brother that he was in no way responsible for what happened to his younger brother all those years ago; neither would he be responsible should Jace fall to Valentine's sword in the arena. Jace had known the risks of challenging Valentine to a duel, and refused to endanger Jonathan's life by involving him.

Unfortunately, the young king beat him to it. "You probably think I'm making this up as a sort of flimsy excuse to get my way," he continued, "And you probably don't even see the relevance of any of it, but…"

"The context of these situations are vastly different, but I believe I do understand," Jace interrupted, feeling touched by his brother-in-law's unspoken love for him. "You want to protect me, to be a brother to me that you couldn't be to yours."

Jonathan nodded. "Yes."

"And I want to be a brother to you, and protect you because I have no other brother." _Besides Alec,_ he silently corrected in his head. "You told Valentine you would honor what I, _your brother_ , want—so I must beg you again, Jon. _Please._ Honor my request. Stay with Clary."

Green eyes locked with gold, and for a moment, Jace believed that Jon would concede. Instead, his reply was the complete opposite, delivered with the typical Morgenstern stubbornness: "I'm sorry, Jace, but I'm afraid I cannot promise you _that_. I am staying here, by your side."

Jace pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Jon…"

"You have my word that I won't interfere in your match. In fact, I will keep my distance from you, _unless_ it's absolutely necessary for me to intervene. We can't afford to lose you, Jace," Jon said in a serious tone. "Selfishly, Clary and I don't want to lose you. But more than that, in the interest of the greater good…you _can't_ die. There is more hanging in the balance than a past score to settle. Alicante cannot fall into Valentine's hands…or there will be war."

Jace pinched the bridge of his nose, an action, he realized belatedly, was growing into a new favorite habit of his when caught between a rock and a hard place—or something similar to that effect. He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted at the thought of Jon's presence as the last line of defense in bringing down Valentine, but however he felt about it, he knew that he had already lost the argument. Jonathan, apparently, had thought of everything at length.

"Fine," Jace reluctantly acquiesced. "You can stay."

* * *

A deafening silence filled his head as Jace stepped out into the arena for the second time, for his last and final match with Valentine. As he always did, the former gladiator looked like an avenging warrior. Sweat glistened off his golden-tanned skin, marking him with an ethereal glow while his golden hair framed his face like a halo.

Trailing just two steps behind him was Jon, his green eyes trained on Jace's back. At the sight of his father emerging from the other side of the arena, Jon paused and stayed where he was. _Not another step further,_ his head told him. _Remember your promise to Jace. This isn't your fight. You're only there to help him when he needs it._

His eyes met his father's and he quickly looked away, afraid of seeing the betrayal there, the coldness. Had not other lives and livelihood be at stake, perhaps his father would have been given a second chance. But no, as it were, he couldn't be trusted—the years he had spent in exile in Alicante had proven his father's capacity for ruthlessness and revenge. If exiled once more, his father would probably find other allies elsewhere and rally them to his cause. If imprisoned, he could still prove just as dangerous. The man was, after all, a mastermind manipulator. He could find other ways to escape, then set in motion yet another relentless plot for power. It had to end. Today.

Jon bent his head and sighed, then uttered a last prayer for his father. Perhaps it was wasted on him, but Jon sincerely hoped that despite his father's evil, he might still find a smidge of mercy and forgiveness in the afterlife. It would be his final gift to him, this act of compassion, knowing that Valentine would be hard pressed to receive any exoneration from the people he had hurt or killed in his lifetime—not that he would expect them to either. Nothing could excuse or justify his father's crimes, of the selfishness that had motivated him. If Jon still struggled to forgive his father for his mother's grisly end, then these other people had the right to be angry and hateful as well, to want to seek justice.

And Jace, being the star witness of his parents' murder at Valentine's hand, was arguably at the top of the list of people who would, righteously, be seeking retributive justice against the fiend.

Jace, unlike his brother-in-law, had less kind and gracious thoughts about the man—no, _monster_ —who had haunted his nightmares for past near decade.

It would all end today, he thought as he adjusted his grip on his sword.

Closing his eyes, Jace took in a deep breath…then slowly releasing it, he awoke to a rousing standing ovation.

 _"DEATH TO VALENTINE!"_

 _"DEATH TO THE FILTHY TYRANT!"_

 _"HERONDALE! HERONDALE! HERONDALE!"_

As petty as it might seem, it felt good to finally be acknowledged by his birth name instead of the alias that Michael had created for him years ago in an attempt to protect his true identity. His family name was all he had left—of his parents and their legacy. Being able to reclaim it, to wear it with pride, Jace finally felt free, no longer a slave of the arena but his own person—one his parents had lovingly brought into this world and raised to become, hopefully, a _good_ man worthy of love and a chance at redemption.

"So, this is how it comes full circle…is it? Morgenstern meets Herondale once again." Valentine's voice broke through Jace's thoughts. Jace blinked his golden eyes once, and realized that he had stopped walking entirely and was now within striking distance of his enemy. The demon smirked at him. "I must admit; I never would have seen this one coming. One moment you stand as a slave in my arena awaiting my signal for your execution, and then the next, you stand in front of me as the newly crowned king of Alicante…and my opponent."

Jace's eyes narrowed. "Is there a point to this talk somewhere in the near future?"

"I am interested to know, Herondale," Valentine continued as if he was never interrupted, "what it is that spurred you into making this…valiant decision. Justice can be delivered just as swiftly by the kingdom's executioner."

"So _everyone_ has been telling me," Jace replied curtly and with more than a hint of impatience. He was truly sick of being asked the same question over and over again—by all three Morgensterns, no less. He understood his wife's concerns, and even Jonathan's, for that matter. But he didn't understand why Valentine felt that _he_ needed to know. As far as _Jace_ was concerned, he had given him a gift—he would be able to defend himself and possibly even survive if he proved himself to be the stronger and better opponent.

But Jace decided to take a different route with his response. "I'm well aware that power-hungry men like you would be content to have your minions do the dirty work for you. But since I'm not, I find it a greater satisfaction carrying out the deed myself."

Valentine laughed. "Spoken like a true gladiator… Perhaps _you_ should be grateful to _me_ then," he had the nerve to say. "After all, I made you into what you are. A killer."

 _Spoken like a true despot. Of course you would take credit for something so detestable,_ Jace wanted to say—but didn't. "I grow tired of this conversation, Valentine. Sebastian talked about as much as you did, and look at him… He's a dead, rotting fool catching flies. We all know why we're here so do me a favor and spare me this mindless chitchat for when you're writhing on the floor with my sword sticking out of you," he said.

Valentine momentarily cast his eyes to the ground and chuckled. "If _Your_ _Highness_ insists."

As the conversation drew to an abrupt end, so nearly did Jace's life come to its own premature ending when a flash of blinding silver assaulted his eyes. Leaping into the air, Jace brought his sword up to deflect Valentine's blow—but missed.

His breath hitched as the tip of the blade grazed the chest-plate of his armor. A mistiming and he would have lost his head barely a second into the match, and an inch closer to Valentine, he would have ended up with a split armor and an early injury.

Gritting his teeth, the former gladiator berated himself to concentrate. He had not endured eight years of slavery only to succumb to a tragic death at the moment where it mattered most. He _wanted_ this match—not only for his personal satisfaction, or to honor his parents, or to seek justice, but also because he needed to prove himself a worthy fighter against Valentine. A trivial matter though it might seem, it was extremely important to Jace. He wanted to fight Valentine—and win—because he wanted to show the monster what he was made of; to prove that despite the humiliation and disgrace Valentine had thrown his way, he had, and would, survive.

As these thoughts coursed through Jace's mind, he found his focus sharpening, his movements growing with intensity and speed, becoming more purposeful. Valentine's tenacity and aggression was impressive, but he refused to be discouraged. _Patience,_ he told himself, even as his body began moving like an energetic blur, mimicking that of a shadow.

Immersing himself into their lethal dance, Jace found solace in the sounds of grinding and screeching of metal against metal. Even if he abhorred the pursuit of mindless violence, of killing without a righteous cause, he inevitably enjoyed the opportunity to demonstrate his swordsmanship; he loved the weight and feel of the blade in his hand, the feeling of freedom and power it gave him, however fleeting. It was irony at its finest, but he had long ago learned that things were often paradoxical; circumstances and principles were rarely ever so simple. It was fortunate then that there was a fairly sound reason behind this contest.

As Jace ducked beneath Valentine's blade, once more evading death by decapitation, he cast his mind back to his father, wondering how different or similar his match with Valentine might have been during their pivotal confrontation eight years ago. How long had they fought before his father fell against Valentine's blade? Had it been apparent from the start who would emerge as the victor of the match, or had their skills been nearly as good as one another? Had Valentine won the fight fairly, or had he struck a low blow in order to defeat his longtime enemy?

Jace had never pondered these questions before, and perhaps, for the sake of his own sanity, he realized belatedly, he probably shouldn't. The last he had seen of his father, the man had been _whole_. It would do him no good to think of him in any other way; the gruesome vision of his mother's assault and beheading had been more than enough to scar his mind.

 _My mother…_

 _No, stop it! Don't think about that now!_

"Sloppy!" Valentine laughed as Jace's dimming focus resulted in a misstep which would have cost him his right arm if he had been a fraction too slow.

"It's a wonder you've lasted this long, boy," Valentine taunted him.

Suddenly removed from his meditative-like state, Jace found himself breathing heavily and the effects of his past injuries catching up with him. His muscles were suddenly aching and he was more tired than he would have expected to be, only seven minutes into the match. He shouldn't have let himself get sidetracked by thoughts of the past, he rebuked himself.

 _Focus!_

"Impressed?" Jace panted, trying to keep his confidence buoyed.

Valentine swung at him again, this time with the likely intent to slice him into half. Jace raised his sword above his head to meet the attack with a parry, grunting when his arms shook from the force put behind Valentine's strike. "Hardly," was the fiend's one-worded reply, punctuated by a harder thrust that nearly sent Jace stumbling.

Righting himself, Jace willed himself to regain his fading momentum. Valentine was coming down on him harder and more tenacious than before, whereas he was beginning to strain underneath the pressure. _God, what's wrong with me? Why now, do I feel so weak? Had I overestimated my own abilities? Worse, had I underestimated Valentine's?_

Jace pushed back Valentine's sword in anger. This wasn't a time to falter, but a time for him to strike back against his enemy ten times harder—and then some. It was time that Valentine finally had a taste of his own poison, to know what it was like to be the one fighting for his life in the arena, no longer the chess master who controlled the game, but a mere pawn at another's mercy. Jace realized that his line of thinking was treading dangerously close to vengeance, something he knew his own mother would have wanted him to hold himself above, but he couldn't deny his human weakness that craved even the smallest measure of retaliation.

Even if it was selfish, at least he was being honest with himself. Besides, it wasn't as if he wanted to punish Valentine with the _exact_ _same_ actions the fiend had carried out against his parents; he respected Clary and Jonathan as Valentine's children and would not subject them to witnessing their father's body being chopped up into tiny pieces and scattered across the Forbidden Forest as Stephen's had been—or his head preserved in a glass jar like a trophy as Celine's had been. A life, fairly taken in a fair match in retaliation for two other loved ones lost…that _was_ fair, wasn't it?

The stray thought caused Jace to inadvertently leave himself open, and Valentine wasted no time in taking advantage of it, delivering a hard kick straight to his core. Jace grunted as the kick took the wind out of his lungs and he fell in a hapless heap on his back.

"Well, this is a familiar sight," Valentine purred as he hoisted his sword, wild black eyes glistening with bloodthirst.

His sword came down, and Jace could have sworn the past nineteen years of his life began to flash before his very eyes. Fortunately, his instinct reacted faster than his own mind could as he reached for his blade, defending himself at the very last second. But, oh, the impact was _so strong_ , that Jace's hand shook furiously. Forcing the air into his lungs, he adjusted his grip on his sword and quickly rolled away, just as Valentine thrust his blade downwards for the second time, emitting a loud peal as the steel struck the ground.

The fiend shouted in frustration, but Jace was too busy feeling grateful for yet another narrow escape…and grateful for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. _Focus! Move now!_ He heard his inner voice scream amid the thundering echoes of his own heartbeat.

Vaulting himself to his feet and ignoring the brief wobbling of his knees, Jace attempted a clean arc at Valentine's neck, but the latter was quicker. Catching his wrist mid-swing, he kneed him swiftly in the gut, sending the young man crumpling forward on his hands and knees. Without missing a beat, Valentine smirked and kicked the other's blade away and out of his reach.

"Oh, whatever will the poor gladiator do without his weapon?" He sneered condescendingly. Trying to stand up but couldn't, Jace crept forward in the direction of his sword. Valentine chuckled. " _Crawl_ , you _dog_. Crawl like the pathetic little cur that you are."

Ignoring his enemy's taunts, Jace's crawling hastened, but just as his fingers were close to grasping the hilt, a heavy boot came down upon his fingers, emitting an earsplitting crack as the bones were crushed by the impact. Miraculously, Jace didn't scream—but dear God above, did he _want_ to. He tasted bitter copper in his mouth, feeling repulsed as he clutched his broken hand to his chest. Valentine watched him, not quite as keen to finish him off quickly as he'd thought, but rather basking in the moment, _gloating_ over his sudden gain of the upperhand.

Not as certain about his next step but determined to steal away again, Jace kept his eyes on Valentine as he backed away. Fear lurked beneath his skin, but he pushed it away, determined not to let Valentine see it. He would get out of this, he told himself. He had been in worse scrapes before. He _could_ —

The next thing Jace knew, his eyes were burning from the assault of the scorching, coarse sand. Shock, laced with pain, shot through him. Not bothering to mask his yell this time, he turned away from Valentine and urgently rubbed at his sand-filled eyes. Foolish though it might make him, he had not anticipated _this_ , that Valentine would resort to such dirty tactics such as to blind him before his death.

 _No—I won't die!_ Jace thought fiercely as he abandoned his futile attempt at regaining his sight in favor of groping around for his sword—or anything that could be used as a weapon. As he sensed Valentine's approach, he clenched his eyes tighter and concentrated on his hearing. Blind or weaponless, he didn't care; he would defend himself. He would still fight!

Just then, his hand enclosed around the sharp edges of a metal strut, likely debris from the weapons used in the earlier gladiator matches. Jace barely processed the feeling of gratitude that swept over him before he was rising to his feet, metal strut clutched firmly in his hand.

 _Inhale, exhale._ Jace tilted his head slightly to get a clearer auditory perception of his enemy's position. If his senses proved true, Valentine was advancing from his east…six feet, five feet, four feet, _closer_! He ignored the thick blood as it trickled from his palm down to his wrist, and drew his hand back as Valentine closed in on him.

Swallowing a deep breath, he braced himself for the possible impact of Valentine's sword when another body collided heavily into him from behind, sending him forward to his knees. The only pain he felt was not from Valentine's blade, but from the metal strut he was still clutching in his hand. But even the pain of that was relative—dulled by the sound of his rescuer's pained gasp. Within the next second, the entire arena was in uproar. Even Clary was screaming.

Forcing his crusty eyes open, Jace found himself kneeling in front of Valentine, but the latter wasn't looking at him. He was looking _behind_ him. His hand was outstretched, holding a dagger a few inches above Jace's own head, the tip embedded deeply in the other person's stomach.

Then, Valentine was staggering, as if pushed backwards by an invisible force. Jace looked down to see himself standing, hands outstretched. _He_ had shoved Valentine away. However, instead of reacting, the older man's eyes were still focused on the other man behind Jace, the one whom he dreaded to turn his gaze to. Jace could almost sympathize with the uncharacteristic look of shock and almost mournful-looking regret playing across the fiend's face, until he remembered—Valentine didn't deserve any sympathy, least of all from him.

Jace braved himself to turn around, all the while praying that he wouldn't find what he had, deep down, known he would see. Maybe he was actually asleep somewhere and was having a vivid nightmare! Any explanation other than the ostensible truth would be acceptable—anything other than _this_. Because, no, Jace didn't want to understand this mortifying scene.

Why was Jonathan standing with the hilt of a dagger sticking out of his abdomen? Jon had promised that he wouldn't interfere, that he would leave Valentine to Jace. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near them. He wasn't anywhere near them, damn it! Jace would have known, he would have seen him and screamed at him to stay away!

"Jon?" He could barely whisper his brother-in-law's name.

But Jon, like Valentine, wasn't looking at him, but at his father…his _murderer_.

* * *

Long seconds passed as Valentine stared at the boy standing across from him, the poisoned dagger still sheathed inside of his body. For the first time in quite possibly his entire life, Valentine Morgenstern was completely stunned into paralysis as feelings he didn't think himself capable of _feeling_ rose to the surface of his chest, making his throat ache and his eyes water. Guilt? Remorse? Heartbreak? He didn't know any of these feelings, yet he felt them all the same, and even more strangely, because of the son he had thought himself to have disowned.

 _Why now?_ Valentine's inner voice, sounding uncharacteristically small, asked. He had never had the best of relationships with his son; had never encouraged any sort of parental affection that his wife Jocelyn had been so particularly fond of. On the contrary, Valentine's brusqueness and harsh criticisms had extended to even his own flesh and blood, that they eventually grew to resent and betray him. That wasn't to say that he regretted those decisions he made with regard to their upbringing. Valentine had always believed himself to be true to his nature; had he tried to be anything else, he would have been a hypocrite. But, oh, _his children_ …they were such spoilt idealists that they refused to accept him for what he was.

 _This is the end result,_ he realized as he stared at the dagger hanging from his firstborn's torso. _It won't be long now,_ he thought, remembering the potency of batrachotoxin. Jonathan's death was inevitable. There was no cure for such a lethal poison.

"Papa?" Jonathan called him in a small voice.

Valentine's black eyes softened almost unintentionally. _Jonathan…my son,_ he thought without even meaning to. Just as he did, memories of the past, of a much younger Jonathan, flooded his mind. He remembered how much he had doted on his son…back when he believed that he could mold the boy into becoming just like _him…_ back when he thought he could groom him into following in his footsteps and carry on his legacy…back when he had _hope_.

It wasn't his fault that his son had failed to be the man that he wanted him to be—it was his mother's. Jocelyn had fed him with too much love and affection that she turned him _soft_. And because of that, Jonathan had wasted his own life to save the enemy.

"Why'd you kill my mother, Father?" Jonathan asked in between ragged breaths, tears filling his green eyes. His knees buckled, but before he could drop to the ground, Herondale caught him and carefully lowered them both the ground. Then, the dagger was gingerly dislodged from its place, causing Jonathan to cry out in agony.

"Shh, Jon. It's okay," Herondale was comforting him as Jonathan's head suddenly fell back against his chest, and his entire body turned stiff as if he, too, was succumbing to the paralytic effects of the poison. "Stay with me, Jon. Stay with me…"

Sweat beaded Jonathan's forehead as he lay panting, in pain, and feeling so, _so cold_. But his eyes remained on his father's. "F-father, _why…_ " His voice was hoarse, no more than a whisper.

How the boy was still holding on and trying to fight against death by sheer human will, Valentine wasn't sure. It awed him to see how strong his son was, but at the same time, it made his skin prickle with anger. Jonathan was only prolonging his own pain, and for what? His dead mother? What was so important about her, that he should spend his last moments asking after her? And why, _God why_ , was he still watching his son die and feeling sorry for him?

" _Why?_ " Jonathan yelled—or asked in a whisper equivalent to a yell. "You didn't have to kill her—or anyone," he forced the words out of his throat, even though it obviously hurt him to speak. "You could have…chosen a different p-path… You could have… _loved_ _us_."

Jonathan's words shook Valentine out of his stupor and his black eyes hardened into a cold glare. "Love?" He chuckled darkly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Jonathan, but what does your pint-sized mind know about _love_? Idid give myself for love, time and time again, but every single one of those times, I get nothing but betrayal in return. _You_ , your sister, the Herondales, and even your lousy whore of a mother! None of you deserve love!" He spat before casting a frosty glance at the blossoming wound on his son's abdomen.

His heart jolted for a moment, but he quickly dismissed the feeling before it could take captive of him again. His son was a traitor—traitors deserved to die, and Jonathan was no exception. His stabbing might have been an accident, but perhaps it was meant to be!

He would be better for it. _They_ would be better for it.

 _I feel nothing for him. I feel nothing,_ Valentine chanted as he spun away from his son—no, _the boy_ —the finality ringing clear in his action. _He is my son no longer. I feel nothing!_

But even then, a small part of him knew that he was desperately lying to himself—and that angered him. As Starkweather came into view, Valentine felt the stirrings of the monster inside of him snapping to almost immediate attention, like a predator noticing its prey from afar and already readying itself for the attack. His decision was made; there was no turning back.

Grabbing Starkweather by the jugular, he threw him down and began to straddle him, rough hands crushing the scarred-face man's throat. Valentine's vision turned a pitch-black, unseeing, as thoughts of his son faded away…just as the boy's own life was fading.

* * *

As Jace held his Jonathan in his arms and the older man began to cough violently, spurts of blood jetting past his lips and staining his chin and neck with crimson, his hope for his brother's survival waned. Jace wanted to believe otherwise, that Jon would be one of the lucky ones, that he wouldn't leave him like his own parents had left him, _but God help him_ , it was so hard to be optimistic in the face of something so starkly bleak. For one, Jonathan was no longer capable of movement, save for what little his eyes and mouth could do to communicate—which was an incredible feat in itself; even his chest was barely moving, his breaths coming shorter, more labored. His body, though clammy with sweat, was growing colder by the second.

Jace was angry—at Jonathan, at Valentine, but most of all, _at himself_. If he had fought better, had defended himself better, Jonathan would have never thrown himself into the line of fire, or in this case, the line of a _poisoned_ dagger to save him. It was unspoken, but Jace knew without a sliver of a doubt that that was why Jonathan was dying so quickly—because the dagger had been poisoned. He had seen it happen before to recognize the signs.

 _Oh God, why_ him _? How could I have let this happen?_

"Jon!" Clary's voice cried out as she fell to her knees beside the two men she loved most in her life. Jace's guilt increased tenfold. How could he bear to look at his wife's face now?

Fortunately or not, Clary's attention was fixated solely on her brother; she didn't even deign to spare her husband a glance.

As Jon met her gaze, their ears were met with his pained-sounding wheezes.

" _Clare_ …" He spoke in a withered voice, decibels below the average whisper.

Unconsciously, both Clary and Jace brought themselves closer to their dying brother, wanting to hear him, wanting so desperately to cling on to any proof that he was still alive.

"Shh, it's okay, Jon. You're going to be okay." Clary's voice shook as she stroked her brother's hair back from his sweaty face. His droopy green eyes met hers, but fluttered close a moment later as he grimaced. "You're g-going to be _o-okay_ ," his sister repeated, sounding as though she was trying to convince herself more than anyone.

" _Clary,_ " he repeated in a tone that bespoke doom and death, like a final goodbye.

"No! Shut up, don't say it! Don't you dare leave me!" She shouted in near hysterics. "You're not going to die—not until you're old and wrinkly and have _forty_ grandchildren!"

Jon gasped loudly and agonizingly.

"Jace!" She finally turned to her husband with a pleading look. "Jace, please…you have to do something! We have to save him!"

Jace couldn't find the words to respond to her, not to tell her that it was too late, there was nothing that can be done for her brother, not even to tell her that he was sorry for his failure.

" _It's okay_ ," Jon suddenly rasped as he made eye contact with Jace. His green eyes, though dull and contaminated with death, spoke the words he could no longer have the strength to say out loud: _It's not your fault. Do not blame yourself for this. Do not punish yourself over this._

Clary squeezed her eyes shut as an agonized sob pierced through her lips. She had understood her brother's silent message as well, could see his weary resignation, but she didn't— _couldn't_ accept it. Her brother was a strong person, so full of heart and a zest for life! It was hard to reconcile him with this brittle man who was expiring fast, far too soon than he should have.

How could he give up on his will to live like this? A part of her mourned. Did he not realize how much she still needed him, how much their people needed him? How could he even consider death an option in the grand scheme of things?

 _Life and death is no man's choice to make. It is not ours to control,_ Clary could almost hear her brother lecturing her, pleading with her to understand, to accept his fate.

"You can't go," she sniffled as she clutched her buried her face into her brother's cheek. "I won't let you. You _can't_."

Jon's eyes closed again, and he grew stiller than ever before, his breaths barely existent. His mouth opened, but no sound other than a rasp came out. Finally, unexpectedly, his last words flowed with a calm serenity: "Be strong, sister mine—and live well. _I l-love y-you…_ "

Then, his head fell back against Jace's shoulder, his green eyes no longer a bright spark, but a milky faraway gaze…peaceful and free. It was almost as if he was sleeping, but both Clary and Jace knew better. Their beloved brother, Jonathan Christoper Morgenstern, was gone.

Jace lowered his forehead and brushed his lips against Jon's temple. He squeezed Jonathan's hand once, but there was no response from the hand that had gone cold and completely limp in his grip. "Ave atque vale, my brother. And may God be with you _,_ " he whispered as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Be at peace, now."

Upon hearing his words, Clary seemed to go into a grief-fueled rage. "No, no, no, Jon! Wake up! Jonathan Christopher, WAKE UP!" She wailed as she shook her brother's lifeless body.

With each wretched sob that left her, Jace felt as though his chest was being stabbed by a sharp knife—over and over and over again. What comfort could he give to his wife as she mourned for the brother she had just lost, the brother who had sacrificed his life for _him_? Apologies seemed meaningless and cheap; they could not bring her brother back. Nothing could.

Jace's heart ached. He had not walked into the arena expecting to lose the man he had come to view as an ally and brother. He'd had faith in his abilities to take down Valentine without need for anyone's interference, until the damned setback had occurred. And then, it was too late, too fast. If only Valentine hadn't stooped to such lowly tactics and brought in a poisoned dagger, then perhaps Jonathan could have had a chance of surviving the knife wound!

Staring down at Jon's lifeless face again, Jace imagined the older man waking up, if only to smack him upside the head. "Snap out of it!" He would say in his strong, upbeat manner. "Do not dwell on what will never come to pass; focus on the present instead. You have to be strong for my sister. You have to take care of her."

"I will," Jace whispered to the imagined voice, then with a heavy heart, he gently removed Jonathan's body from his lap. Clary shot him a look through her weeping tears, almost accusing and hateful, but Jace didn't let it waver him. He gathered his wife into his arms and held onto her tight, even as she resisted him, screaming words he had no hope of ever understanding.

"Shh…sweetheart, it's okay. J— _He's_ in a better place now," Jace said in a strangled voice as he stroked Clary's fiery red curls, even as she drummed her fists into him and continued to howl. "Shhh…" He continued to make shushing noises until she finally gave in and collapsed heavily against his chest, crying softly.

"Clary," Jace barely even spoke her name when blaze of near-blinding silver intruded upon his vision, accompanied by a familiar-sounding peal. His golden eyes grew wide and alert, and on instinct, Jace shoved his wife out of the way before rolling in the opposite direction.

Valentine's blade descended upon them a mere second too late, then hit the ground with a sharp ringing noise. The fiend growled his outrage as Jace launched himself to his feet and began moving lithely, like a mist, to dodge the latter's ensuing lethal blows. There could be no more mistakes this time—not for either Valentine or Jace. Valentine wanted this man—his enemy's son—dead. And as for Jace, he wanted their fight to end, without involving anymore innocent casualties. Enough blood had been shed in this arena. No more than _one_ _life_ would be claimed here, today and thereafter. It was time they all put this graveyard of pain behind them.

As Valentine pursued him, Jace noticed the scarred man he'd attacked earlier out of his periphery, lying on the ground, _dead_ , marks of strangulation evident around his neck. Another casualty. Even if Jace didn't know who he was, he felt his anger for Valentine spark anew. The victim, whether or not he was complicit in Valentine's schemes, was a reminder of why Valentine was too dangerous of a criminal to be kept alive. He was proof that Valentine was more than just a calculative murderer, but a ruthless one who sometimes killed without a second thought. He felt no remorse for killing, had ceased to view it as anything but a means to further his own ends. Nothing and no one could ever rival his own importance. Therefore, no one could ever hope to be safe from a menace like him, even if they hadn't done anything wrong.

Then, of course, there was Jonathan's death to consider. Almost instantly, Jace saw red at the thought of his dead brother-in-law, the freshest, bitterest wound Valentine had inflicted upon him to date. Jon's last moments…the way Valentine had spoken to his son, had rebuffed his appeal for love and forgiveness, aggravated him like only a stubborn splinter could. He could understand Valentine's hatred and antipathy for him, son of the adopted brother he never wanted, but how could the fiend have been so heartless towards his _dying son_? He had thrown all that Jonathan had cried out to him back in his face, then turned his back on him, only to murder his crony over his own inexplicable, confused rage. It was insane—well and truly!

 _"Aaaaarrrghhh!"_

As Valentine's swung his sword with relish, aiming for his neck, Jace bent down to evade the blow, and as he mounted to his full height, he thrust his elbow upwards, striking the fiend squarely in the throat. Valentine let out a sharp breath at the force of his assault and his hand inadvertently went slack around his weapon.

Without missing a beat, Jace disarmed his enemy and caught the blade expertly by the hilt. Now he was holding Valentine's sword—the irony wasn't lost on him. He swung the blade in an elegant arc, and whilst in mid-air, slashed a deep cut at the back of the fiend's knees. Valentine let out an unearthly scream as he fell forward, headfirst into the ground. Even then, he would not surrender, _dragging_ himself forward and then _clawing_ vengefully at Jace.

Remembering a somewhat similar scenario during their fight earlier that resulted in his broken hand, the golden-eyed gladiator butchered off his adversary's wrist for good measure, then balancing the blade in his grip, he pointed the tip to the base of Valentine's throat.

Eyes steady, hand unwavering. "It's over," Jace breathed as he pressed the blade against Valentine's throbbing pulse point, exerting just enough pressure to pierce the outer layer of skin.

In his pure, unadulterated hate, the black of Valentine's pupils began to eclipse the whites, giving him a truly diabolical look that nearly shook Jace from his resolve.

"So do it then!" He yelled. "Do what your father failed to do! Kill me!"

"God knows you don't deserve a quick death," Jace answered calmly, even though his heart was racing wildly in his chest. "But then again, who am _I_ to be making such statements?" Forcing breath into his lungs, Jace barreled on, "I look at you now, and all I feel is pity. Tell me, Valentine, how is it that you can live the way you do, to take lives as you wish, to brutalize your victims' bodies even after they are dead? I hate you…I _loathe_ you…but I can't even fathom following the path you took in your quest for revenge. Why is that?"

Valentine's eyes flashed. "Because you are a _weak fool_ , just like your parents," he taunted him.

Jace nodded. "Perhaps," he found himself agreeing, but for the first time, without any hint of bitter resentment. "And for that, I'm grateful. If what you perceive as weak is what gives me my humanity, then I have no cause for lament. I certainly have no desire to be like you," he said.

Valentine scoffed.

"Before you die, I want you to understand this," Jace continued. "My reasons for killing you have nothing to do with _revenge_ …"

Valentine burst out laughing. "You incapacitate me. You sever my hand. And yet, you claim that your actions are not driven by a cause for revenge?"

Jace closed his eyes, but made no move to lower his blade. He had no idea why he was stalling, why he even felt the need to explain himself—of his intentions and feelings—to Valentine. His enemy certainly didn't care. But for some reason, _he_ did. Maybe it was because he felt that he owed it to Jonathan and Clary, because…well, Valentine was _their father_ after all. If nothing else, and in that regard at least, he _respected_ Valentine, albeit it was a strange, if somewhat misplaced, sentiment to hold for a man who had caused so much damage to the people he loved.

"For honor and justice," he breathed out, then said no more.

Valentine opened his mouth, no doubt to hurl more insults to his would-be executioner, but was stopped by his approaching daughter. His eyes widened slightly, not just at the uncharacteristic look of cold fury on her face, but at the sight of the sword she wielded in her hand— _Jonathan's_ sword, a pair to Valentine's own that he had gifted to his son on his fifteenth birthday.

"Clary…"

Jace spared her a quick surprised glance as she slipped her hand into his, the one he had injured earlier. But save for the slight squeeze, there was no further acknowledgement from her. Then, to his mounting shock and disbelief, his wife raised her sword and leveled it at the other side of Valentine's neck, leaving the man sandwiched in between both blades.

Her hand shook a little underneath the weight of the blade, but her expression remained steady, resolute. "Do you have any last words… _Father_?" She asked in a thin voice, her face devoid of any other emotion but rage.

Once again, Jace was found himself growing even more shocked by Clary's coldness. He felt a strong urge to look at her, if only to seek out a trace of his warm, benevolent wife in this mourning, _strange_ woman, but resisted it. There would be time for reassurances later.

Valentine smirked at his daughter amusedly, as if the blades restricting his neck's movements were nonexistent. "My, my, Clarissa. Look at you…a little girl playing with swords…how utterly…" he clicked his tongue condescendingly, "adorable."

The old Clary would have shuddered at her father's remark, but _this_ Clary, a grieving, bereaved sister, only scowled at him. " _That's enough, Valentine_ ," she hissed menacingly. "If you have nothing else worth saying, then don't say it. Shut up! JUST SHUT UP!"

Jace contemplated what to say to pacify his wife, but as disturbed as he was by her behavior, he, somehow, understood. Grief was a petrifying emotion, and an especially powerful motivator for destruction. Perhaps it would be a wiser of him to prevent her from participating in her father's execution, lest she regretted it later, but Jace, for the life of him, could not find the heart to interfere. Clary would argue with him, _he knew_ , about her own right to seek justice against her brother's killer, regardless of the fact that he was her father. Such an argument would be ill-timed, where they should be appearing as a united front.

So instead of telling her to lay down her weapon, he implored her, "Peace, Clary…" _Do not let your anger and grief rule you. Do not let it pollute you. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. No one's expecting you to._

Clary's hard, steely eyes softened slightly, but the squaring of her shoulders communicated her decision well: she was staying.

"Mene mene tekel upharsin," she murmured calmly, eliciting a look of complete astonishment from Valentine as he comprehended the meaning behind his daughter's hushed but powerful words. In it was a note of finality, not a mere farewell, but a proclamation of the end of her father's despotic rule. "No more shall suffer at your hand, Father. It ends with Jonathan."

Valentine stared at his daughter, and for the first time, he found himself looking her in the face and finally seeing _her_. He had not expected this; the daughter whom he had spent her entire life underestimating, abusing, neglecting, was not only standing up to him, but also proving to be the instrument of his downfall. How ironic it was, that the one person he had terrorized, possibly the most, would be the one to instill him with _pride_ , _respect_ and _fear_.

"On three, sweetheart," Jace cued his wife, turning his head slightly to look at her.

Clary met his gaze and gave him a curt nod, unmistakable but otherwise carefully disguised anxiety simmering beneath her hard exterior. Jace gripped her hand tighter despite the pain it caused him, then finally returned his attention to Valentine.

"One."

"Two," Clary counted, her green eyes burning like hot emeralds into her father's.

"Clarissa, my daughter—"

Clary closed her eyes, blocking out the sound of her father's plea. She would not be moved by him, regardless of their blood ties. She was following his example, after all.

After a moment, she reopened her eyes and met Jace's. He was already looking at her, waiting for her to be ready. And she was.

Finally, together, they uttered: "Three."

Valentine's eyes widened, and his face turned a bone-white color as the Herondales moved in unison, their sharp blades meeting at the center of his throat. All was silent as the fiend's head was neatly sliced off his shoulders, his head rolling to the ground with a final thump. His body followed soon after, landing in a heap of bloodied mass at the couple's feet.

As if awakening from a trance, Clary let out a whimper before dropping her brother's bloody sword from her hand. Then she was caged in Jace's warm embrace, the two of them holding onto each other for dear life. It was over. It was finally over.

* * *

 _ **A/N: I know, some of you likely feel like stabbing me with a poisoned dagger yourself. But before you lose your heads, let me explain...**_

 _ **Why? Why did I kill Jon? Lovable, respectable, good-hearted Jon? It seems unfair that out of so many characters, one of the nicest (and most certainly one of my personal favorite) characters had to die. Well, t**_ _ **he simplest answer would be, "I planned it that way from the very start." Which is true, by the way. Remember, I wrote this story back in 2014-2015. That's over 3 years ago. Was I going to change the ending with the reboot? Unfortunately...no, I wasn't. I stuck to the same ending for the same reasons I had the first time around...only I've developed on those reasons since then.**_

 _ **FIRSTLY. It all goes back to the title of the story: Redemption.**_

 _ **Contrary to what some may think, Redemption isn't the equal definition of revenge, or in Jace's original basic definition: to buy his own freedom and regaining all that he had lost. Whichever way you interpret it, from a spiritual viewpoint or a moral philosophical one, true redemption, at the end of the day, is about saving oneself (and others) from what the majority would otherwise perceive as evil, depraved or corrupt.**_

 _ **In Jon's instance, his final act of redemption was his attempt to make Valentine own up to his past wrongdoings**_ _ **—**_ _ **not necessarily to acquit him of them, but to ask him to acknowledge them and to feel remorse. And although he failed, the emotional/moral implications of his death are far-reaching.**_ _ **For instance, it gave Valentine**_ ** _a significant pause that we wouldn't have otherwise seen if the fight had gone on smoothly with either Jace or Valentine winning. We saw for a few short moments that Valentine regretted what he did (to Jon, at least), which was an important character moment. It would never absolve him of his crimes (and as we saw, Valentine had condemned himself to the point of no return when he chose pride over repentance), but still. There's impact there._**

 _ **SECONDLY. Continuing along the lines of 'impact'... Jon's death gave Clary the motivation she needed to stand up for herself and seek justice on every single tragedy that had been inflicted on her by their father. Clary's redemption, unlike Jon's, wasn't to save her father, but to cleanse herself from her father's taint and becoming her own person. She wouldn't have had the push to do that; neither would she have taken up her brother's sword if Jon hadn't sacrificed himself. That's not to say that the ends justified the means, but again, I felt that it added more context and layer to the story as compared to if everyone had walked out of the arena alive and lived happily ever after.**_

 _ **THIRDLY. For years, the people at large (Idrisians, Alicanteans) have blindly supported the gladiator games that their tyrannical king Valentine championed with little to no thought or conscience over the fact that these gladiators are, in fact, sentient beings. They cheered, they booed, and essentially, they made these gladiators—who are victims—into lesser beings than they're worth. No one really cares, because why should they? Gladiators are slaves. But what if the victim turned out to be someone actually important? A beloved member of the royal family, as was in Jon's case?**_ _ **Their perspective would change greatly.**_

 _ **Think of Jon's death as something to the degree of martyrdom. His death opened the eyes of so many who have spent the past near decade living in corruption and deceit. The people actually—**_ **finally** _ **—saw the ugly nature of what they have so mindlessly supported when they realize that a heavy price had been paid; an innocent life of a selfless being, who could have turned out to be a great king and saved them from poverty and such, had been sacrificed because of their king's wickedness and greed. Nothing cuts a more sobering wake-up call than that. Nothing else would have made them turn away and renounce the barbarism of the gladiator games. Sure, Jace (or Jon if he had survived) could have easily banned the games once he became king...but how many people would be so willing to accept that their greatest form of entertainment was done away with forever? So even though it was unfair that Jon had to teach the people that lesson at the expense of his own life, his sacrifice was necessary because it left a far-reaching impact.**_

 _ **Write me your thoughts on this chapter, but please, I beg you...no flames. Believe me when I say that I've put a lot of thought into this. Besides, it was no easy decision for me to make either, especially when so many were expressing their love for Jon in the earlier chapters.**_ _ **I promise you guys this much, though... Jon's death will not go unremembered.**_

 _ **The epilogue will be up (hopefully) soon and it will be bittersweet. Mostly sweet.**_

 _ **Until then,**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	26. Epilogue

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **Greetings to all and a Happy New Year! Hope you lovelies are starting off 2019 on a wonderful note.**_

 _ **Here's the epilogue. Enjoy. Review. And please don't skip over the A/N at the bottom. Much love!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **EPILOGUE: REDEMPTION**

 _"Clary! Clary, are you in here?" A soft, gentle voice called._

 _Clary curled up further against the floor, her arms holding her knees to her chest tightly as if she were trying to fold herself into a tiny ball. Her muscles groaned in protest when she moved, sore from the amount of time she'd spent in that uncomfortable position, but she ignored the ache anyway as she continued to rock herself back and forth, traitorous tears continuously streaming down her cheeks._ _The skirting of the bedsheets lifted, and soon, Clary found herself staring into the concerned eyes of the older boy._

 _"There you are," he said, his tone awash with relief._

 _Instead of returning his smile, she turned away from him and rasped, "Go away."_

 _The boy sighed before lowering himself to the floor in front of the princess. He had spent almost an entire hour scouring the palace high and low for her, worried that in her grief, she had run off someplace dangerous and hurt herself. But as it appeared, she had only barricaded herself away inside her chambers, albeit underneath the bed where she had remained out of sight—until now. The boy mentally chastised himself for not thinking to check there first._

 _Slowly, he reached out to stroke her hair, his touch wary and hesitant, as if he were approaching a wild animal. "What are you doing down here, sweetie?" He asked._

 _She didn't respond to him, her body still shaking with hiccups._

 _"Clare, come on, we should—" The boy flinched when the young girl did the same, her face contorting in anger when she realized that he was trying to make her leave her hiding place._

 _He swiftly retracted his hands and looked contrite. "I'm sorry."_

 _"Leave me alone," she whispered hoarsely, her reddened green eyes glossy with tears._

 _The boy hesitated for a moment, before schooling his features into a fiercely determined expression. "No," he said firmly. "You don't get to decide for me what it is I choose to do, and you most certainly don't get to decide for me_ when _I'll leave you alone."_

 _Clary glared at him angrily. "GO AWAY!" She shouted as she shoved at the boy's chest, trying to put as much distance as she could between them. "I don't want you here. I don't_ need _you here. I don't want your comfort, and most of all, I don't want you to tell me that it's going to be okay. It's not okay. And it will_ never _be. So just stop trying to feed me lies and empty promises. Just stop," she said bitingly, causing hurt to flash in his eyes._

 _"Don't do this to me, Clare. Please," the boy pleaded. "Don't push me away."_

 _"Why shouldn't I?" She snapped. "You're not_ them _," her voice cracked, "Don't you understand? I don't want anyone else but them. But you can't give me what I want, can you?"_

 _Despite the piercing hurt he felt at her words, he pulled the girl into his arms, ignoring her loud shouts and squirms of protest._

 _"I love you," he said, his throat weighed down by a heavy lump. "You're all I have left. Please don't push me away. Don't leave me too, Clary. Please…"_

 _At that, Clary finally gave up fighting and buried her face into the boy's chest, her own regret overpowering her._ How could I have been so selfish? _She thought, rebuking herself. She wasn't the only one grieving. He was, too._

 _"I love you, Jonathan. I love you. I'm sorry. Please. Promise you won't leave me next. I can't lose you too," Clary sobbed into her brother's chest as he held her tighter to him._

 _"I love you too, baby sis. I promise I won't leave you. Ever. I'll_ always _be there for you," he said as he threaded his fingers through her hair._

 _She looked up at him, hope shining in her eyes. "You promise?"_

 _"I promise."_

* * *

 **August 3, 509**

Jace leaned against the oak tree as he watched his wife through worried eyes. She stood before her brother's grave, a bouquet of white roses tucked neatly in her arms. At first, her expression was completely stoic, betraying no emotion. Then, her façade broke, her trembling lips giving way to a broken sob. She pressed her palm against her mouth, muffling the sound.

Jace clenched his fist and fought against every desire to go to Clary and to hold her in his arms until her emotional storm passed. To this day, nothing rattled his heart more than the sight of his wife in agony. So attuned was he to the woman he'd chosen as his life partner that he felt her pain as if it were his own. Oftentimes he wished that he could do more—could _have done_ more to secure her happiness. But now of all times, he knew that it was best if he kept his distance, if only to allow Clary the chance to grieve her brother in peace.

Nearly eight months had passed since Jonathan's death, of which Clary had mostly spent within the safe perimeters of the palace grounds as she sought to heal herself and adapt to her new duties as queen. After witnessing her breakdown at her brother's funeral and her rapid descent into depression for days after that felt both long and entirely too bleak, Jace found himself a prisoner of self-loathing, guilt and helplessness. For a time, he'd felt certain that he, too, would be engulfed by madness. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, they were rewarded with a tiny spark, news that would soon change their lives again, and for the better.

Clary began to emerge from her gloom, as did Jace, and together they discovered the resolve to recover from their traumatic ordeal. _Yet,_ his wife had never truly accepted that her brother was gone. Conversations, even incidental mentions of Jonathan, would drain the color from her face quicker than anything Jace had ever seen, that they avoided the topic of her brother altogether. For eight months since Jonathan's burial, Clary hadn't even attempted to visit his grave…until _now_. She had risen particularly early that morning, looking the most occupied Jace had ever seen her in months. Then, when she'd finally spoken, he had been stunned into silence.

"I want to see my brother," she'd said with a determined expression.

Jace could only stare at her with wide disbelieving eyes. He'd thought about denying her request, but quickly dismissed it when he noticed the clarity in her eyes. This was the Clary he'd first met in the market, the girl whose fire had captivated him like no other woman had.

So wordlessly, he'd put on his shoes—and helped her into her own pair—before taking her hand in his and leading them to the cemetery where the deceased royalty of Idris were buried. Fortunately, it was within walking distance from the palace, located on a sloping stretch of land aptly named _The Garden of Revered Souls_. Alone, Jace had been there several times to visit Jon's as well as his own mother's grave. After the young king's funeral, he had finally mustered his courage and gone into Valentine's secret room, where he found everything Clary had told him about: the Herondale family treasure, his father's weapons…and the most devastating sight no son ever wanted to see: his mother's head preserved in a glass jar.

For minutes he had stared into her lifeless golden eyes, wishing that he wasn't seeing her from a jar the way Valentine had left her…wishing that she were still alive. But reality eventually won out and forced him into acceptance. It was pointless to wish for things that he knew would never come true. The best he could do for his mother was to give her the closure she had long deserved. So Jace did another brave thing that day: he'd taken his mother's head, carefully wrapped it in a linen shroud, then brought it to the royal cemetery to be buried. He'd even enlisted the help of Brother Zachariah to conduct a small, private ceremony for his mother, where they said a few prayers for her in hopes that her soul may be laid to rest once and for all.

And Jace truly believed that she was finally at peace—so was he, _relatively_ speaking.

In the time that had passed since the demise of Valentine Morgenstern and Sebastian Verlac, Jace had risen as the ruler of not just one, but two realms: Idris and Alicante.

It was a heavy responsibility to shoulder; for a man who had spent eight years of his life as a slave and gladiator, the change was an understatedly massive one. After all, how could one simply undo the aftermath of his experiences as a slave?

A few days after he was conferred the title of King, Jace had, in a state of doubt and apprehension of failure, considered abdicating the throne and holding an election for one more worthier to take his place. He had been raised as a prince, trained to one day bear the title of king for the first ten years of his life, but that life had ended abruptly with Valentine's attack. The defining years of his youth and early adulthood had been rife with pain, indignity, violence, grief, and anger—so much _anger_. Jace had believed that throughout his slavery, he had retained enough of his personhood and clung onto enough of his early teachings to not turn into a complete brute, incapable of grace and moral ethics expected of those who claimed membership to a society. But he had also lost so much of innocence and self-worth; had been tainted and soiled by his experiences.

Clary had always remarked how strong he was, and how proud she was of him, but a part of him could never truly accept her compliments with grace. At times, the sight of his wife, particularly when she was smiling at him with unconditional love and trust, made his insides churn and shudder with guilt. Jace felt woefully inadequate, even though being king meant that he could now provide for Clary whereas his previous status as gladiator gave him no such capability. Ultimately, pride was the least of his worries; _failure_ was.

How could an ex-gladiator with minimal training in the affairs of the throne be expected to lead and reconcile two nations under a single rule? The existing strong alliance between Idris and Alicante aside, the kingdoms had been steadily deteriorating under the influence of two individually corrupt tyrants. To reverse the effects of the contaminated seeds planted by his predecessors, within as minimal a time as possible, was, Jace loathed to admit, difficult. Besides, there was more to do in the duties of running a kingdom; politics itself, which was the furthest from Jace's own forte, was extensive in its breadth, from public policies and administration, to taxation, trade, military and others. Between navigating the throne and the arena, Jace found the latter to be closer to his element.

But no, to give up would mean to nullify Jon's sacrifice—and his own parents, for that matter. Failure was _not_ an option. It was only through quiet moments of prayer and meditation, and by remembering the sacrifices of loved ones lost and still alive, as well as acknowledging his own triumphs and strengths that Jace remained on the path that was bestowed to him. He might have never _wanted_ to be king, much like how he had never wanted to be an orphan, or a slave, or a gladiator; but destiny had dictated otherwise and so it was his duty to make the best out of it. His life thus far was, after all, already a shining example of the adage that you can't always get what you want. There would always be new trials to face, and it would be up to him to decide whether he would rise up to the occasion or fall.

And Jace, though many times in his life had been plagued with fear and doubt, and sometimes still heard the haunting voices of the ghosts of his past, _refused_ to fall. He was, at heart, a warrior who loved deeply. Perhaps, to attribute love as a single motivation was an oversimplified way of looking at things, but he wouldn't be lying if he said that it was love that nurtured him and nourished him day after day. The love of his wife, and remembering how his parents had loved him, kept him grounded in his duty, even when confronted by a steep learning curve and his own mental and emotional challenges.

Yes, he still felt inadequate, ashamed, guilty and even a tad bit embarrassed of himself when he looked at Clary, who in recent months had proven to be a political prowess like her late brother Jonathan, but he was nevertheless grateful because he knew her belief in him was _real,_ as was that of his Royal Advisor Patrick Penhallow and reformed council. He could only hope that he would one day believe in himself as much as they did, too.

"Jon…" Clary's voice broke Jace out of his musings.

He watched, his heart breaking for his wife, as she sank down to her knees, her sobs growing even louder as her fingers shakily reached out to touch the engraved words on her brother's gravestone:

 _Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern  
19 April 485 – 30 December 508  
Revered King & Hero of Idris  
Beloved Son & Brother_

Unable to take it anymore as Clary began to crush the gravestone to her chest, Jace trudged forward towards her before falling on his knees behind her. He pulled his wife onto his lap, rocking her back and forth as she cried, her face now buried into his chest.

"Shh, it's okay. Just let it all out, sweetheart," he murmured sweet nothings into her ear.

They continued to embrace each other for a considerably long time, the minutes stretching far and wide until they felt like hours, until a small movement brought them back to the present. Clary pulled back from Jace slightly, her lips curved into a small smile, as she took his large hand in hers and guided it to rest on the rounded protrusion of her stomach.

Jace beamed down at her before planting a sweet kiss on her lips. At that exact moment, he felt another flutter—a _kick_ —from beneath his fingertips.

His smile widened. _There it was._ The one thing that held them together despite everything. The one thing that made their lives seem worthwhile despite their painful losses. Their baby.

Just two weeks after Jon's passing, Clary had fallen into a steady wave of nausea that caused her to frequently throw up, especially in the mornings. Jace had been worried that her sickness had been triggered by the grief of her brother's death, but after a thorough examination with Magnus, they discovered that she was, in fact, with child.

Now, she was only a few days away from her due date, and both Clary and Jace couldn't be more excited to welcome their child into their lives. During the last couple of weeks, they had busied themselves with all the necessary preparations, which mostly included fixing up the baby's room. Clary had even knitted a couple pair of mittens for their child, and Jace had to admit, they were one of the most adorable things he'd ever laid eyes on.

It was strange, how such a small being, that had yet to even enter their lives, could be so powerful and evoke so much love from them. In spite of everything, their baby had been a great blessing, giving them light in their hour of darkness.

"Should we go home now?" Clary asked softly as she broke away from their kiss.

Jace was rubbing smooth circles onto the loose, pale-pink silk gown covering her swollen belly, a soft smile playing on his lips when he felt their little one move.

"Only if you're ready to," he replied, not wanting to rush her unless she had achieved everything she had set out to do at her brother's grave.

Clary glanced at the marble gravestone once more, then ran her fingers over the engraving. She paused, lingering as she came upon the one word that meant the most to her: 'brother'.

 _Forever and ever my brother,_ she thought. _Hail and farewell._

"Atque in pepetuum frater ave atque vale," Clary whispered before setting the bouquet of roses down against his grave. "I love you, Jon. No matter how much time passes, I'll always love you. You'll always be my big brother."

Jace couldn't help but smile at his wife. He knew that losing Jon had been one of the hardest losses Clary had ever faced in her sixteen years, but he admired her strength and courage to move on with her life, even if it wouldn't be the same without her brother by her side.

"And I love you, Jace. Always," Clary said as she turned towards him.

He gently stroked her cheek before leaning in and capturing her lips with his. Clary smiled into the kiss while tugging him closer to her, as closely as they could possibly manage with her round stomach in between them.

"Always, Clary," Jace murmured against her lips before helping his wife to her feet.

* * *

Jace inhaled the air deeply as he stood at the balcony of the chambers he shared with his wife. Dressed in a loose, if slightly plain tunic, his posture was relaxed, even if his mind didn't quite mirror his bearing. Soon, he would be convening with his council members to vote on the matter of military conscription. Though Alicante and Idris combined had a sizeable army, there were still concerns about whether they would be enough. Over the course of his rule, Valentine had possessed the habit of employing the services of mercenaries, which Jace and several of his councilmen felt was a hardly reliable long-term solution if it ever came to war. Some mercenaries were capable of pledging loyalty and honor, others were only loyal to money.

Nevertheless, if approved, then the military conscription act would be the next biggest mandate to pass since Jace's kingship, the first having been the immediate eradication of the gladiator games and the repurposing of the gladiatorial arenas as military training centers for the royal troops, which held no shortage of rehabilitated gladiators as well. Thus far, few occurrences since his ascension as king had touched Jace as much as the oath of allegiance his former gladiator comrades swore to him upon their emancipation from slavery; the majority of whom, including Alec, choosing to enlist in the army so as to put their combat skills to good use and to protect the kingdom that had redeemed them and its citizens.

But he digressed. The ban on the gladiator games had been largely talked about for weeks after it was ordained, though majority of public sentiment had been positive. After the final confrontation at Dumont, many began to view the games as rotten and destructive, Jonathan's death having served as a sobering reminder to all who had once felt otherwise.

Jace smiled wryly at the thought. One with a conscience could never truly refer to the death of a loved one as a blessing, but indeed, from a certain point of view, there was a silver lining behind that very cloud. As short as his rule had been, Jonathan's death was deeply felt, especially by those whose lives had been touched by the compassion of the then-prince of Idris. At times, Jace wondered how differently the people would have responded to the ban on the gladiator games had Jon not perished in the arena. Would they have willingly relinquished their greatest form of entertainment or viewed the gladiators as anything more than mere slaves? Would they have willingly welcomed the now-redeemed slaves as their equals, brothers who only sought to have the same right to freedom as they did?

Sighing, Jace turned away from the balcony and reentered the bedroom. To his amusement, he found his wife dressed in her nightclothes and brushing her hair by her vanity. Enamored by her beauty and the calming effect she had on him, he kept his gaze locked on her.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Clary looked down at herself self-consciously as she moved away from the vanity.

Jace grinned at her. "Is it a crime to stare at my beautiful wife?"

The young queen scoffed but her blush gave away the fact that she was secretly pleased by her husband's compliment. "It is," she lied.

"Tsk tsk, Clary," he teased her before pushing himself off of the doorway he had been standing in. He sat down on the edge of the vanity his wife had previously occupied, continuing to watch her as she pulled back the covers from their bed and fluffed up the pillows. "It's still mid-day. Isn't it a little too early for you to be getting ready for bed?"

"It's never too early to get ready for bed when you're as far along as I am with a child," she told him as she settled down on their bed. She raised her feet up so that they were resting on the mattress, then laid her head down on her pillow. Her relieved sigh was short-lived as she found herself struggling to see her husband's face over the huge bump that was her belly.

"I can't see you," she groaned.

Jace let out a chuckle before walking over and sitting down on the small space by her side. His hand came to rest on her stomach. "Better?"

"Hmm," she hummed sleepily as she absentmindedly rubbed circles against her belly. "I can't wait for our baby to arrive. I miss being able to see my feet."

"Well, as much as I share your excitement about meeting our baby, I can't say I won't miss seeing you like this. You're absolutely the most gorgeous pregnant woman I've ever seen," he told her.

"Such a sweet-talker."

"It's the truth," he defended. His golden eyes softened when he noticed her eyes drooping. He would have been content to leave her to rest, but he still needed to know one other thing. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Clary sighed, her mouth moving while her eyes remained closed. "I'm really tired. Honestly, I think it won't be long before the little one gets here. He's been keeping me up all night, and I've been having contractions more frequently these last couple of days." She paused for several long seconds, and Jace wondered for a while if she had fallen asleep.

Then she spoke, "I know that's not what you were asking me, but you should probably know—the baby's the reason why I wanted to go visit Jon today. The constant reminder that we'll be welcoming another life soon has dredged up so many thoughts about the past and made me realize how much I've missed my brother. As much as I'm thankful for his sacrifice, I really wish that things with my father had ended a little differently. I wish that Jon hadn't interfered so he could still be here with us. I miss him so much."

Jace wiped at the tear that had fallen from her cheek, then began to gently stroke her hair. Their hands that were on her stomach gripped each other tightly until their fingers were intertwined. "The ones who love you will never truly leave you, Clary. As long as we honor their memory, they stay with us in our hearts," he said softly.

"I know." Her face scrunched up a little just then and she let out an unintentional whimper.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Clary opened her eyes slightly and looked up at him. As green eyes bored into his golden ones, he could see it, festering beneath the depths of those gorgeous orbs: pain. He glanced down at her belly, worried for a second that it had to do with the baby, but whatever pain it was that she was feeling, he realized that it wasn't physical. It was something much deeper…something emotional.

"My father," she finally croaked. Other than the brief flash of surprise at her confession, Jace's expression gave nothing away. "I know that a lot of what my father had done in his life was wrong. He'd killed so many innocent people and manipulated a great number of others for his own selfish means. He deserved the justice that was coming to him…but now all I can think about is how much of a mistake it was to have partaken in his execution." She let out a choked sob. "Yes, he had hurt me more than he had ever shown me that he loved me, but he was my father. How could I have done that? How could I have killed him?"

Jace stared at her. Truthfully, he didn't know what to say. Since the last gladiator games, they hadn't spoken about her father either. Not about how she had taken up her brother's sword and killed him alongside Jace. Valentine was a sore subject for the both of them and Jace had thought it was best not to bring him up at all. Clearly he had underestimated how much that day had eaten away at Clary—not just her brother's death, but how she had been responsible for her father's as well. And to realize only now how stupidly imperceptive he had been to let his wife's guilt run unnoticed, he felt like punching himself in the face.

"Clary," he struggled with his words, "Why didn't you talk to me about this sooner?" He realized too late that it wasn't the type of assurance that Clary was looking for from him, but in that moment, it was all he could manage to say.

He thought back to the past couple of months, trying to dissect each memory for clues of Clary feeling guilt over her father's death, but none came to mind. All this time, he'd thought that the occasional flashes of pain in Clary's eyes were because she had been remembering her brother's death. He had genuinely thought that Valentine was best left in the past, and so he never asked her how she felt about killing the man who had fathered her and raised her.

"You already know that I killed my father—"

"But I didn't realize how much it has haunted you since," Jace said.

"That's because it hasn't," Clary answered in a surprisingly steady voice. "You know how my brain deals with trauma, Jace. It tends to bury them. My father hasn't even surfaced in my thoughts until just now. Visiting Jon's grave had given me closure with my brother, but it's triggered these other feelings about my father. I don't know what to make of them…" Her expression hardened, as did her eyes, clouded with an emotion Jace was well-attuned to: self-hatred. "All I know is that in my moment of grief, I succumbed to the darkness and did the one thing I abhorred the most: I took a life that wasn't even mine to take and felt no remorse over it. And _that_ makes _me_ a monster of the worst kind."

"Clary, no!" Jace shook his head vehemently. "That's not—that's not true, sweetheart. You aren't a monster. _You aren't._ "

"Aren't I?" She challenged him.

Jace's mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to find the words to placate her, but before he could, Clary cut him off.

"To murder is a sin," she said in a slow and agonized tone. "And I committed one of the biggest sins of all by killing my own flesh and blood— _my own_ _father!_ Even if he had been a horrible man, how could I have done such malicious thing? How could I have looked him in the eye and still followed through with killing him?" By the end of her rant, she had her eyes closed shut and her lips pursed tightly as if she was trying to tamp down the urge to start crying.

Jace watched her, silent.

Clary's voice lowered to a whisper. "H-how… How can I be forgiven for that?"

Finally stirring to life, the young king reached his hand out to cup her cheek, using the pad of his thumb to stroke her bottom lip soothingly. "Clary…" She tried to turn away from him, but he held onto her firmly. "Clary, listen to me. I know _I_ am not in the best position to be preaching about morality, but I do know _this_."

As the image of his smiling late mother entered his mind, his golden eyes turned glossy. "My mother…" He cleared his throat to get rid of the thick lump of emotion forming in his gorge. "When I was little, my mother used to say that there is infinite beauty to be found in life, even in the face of our darkest trials," he said as he gentled wiped away her tears. "It's a little ironic, I suppose, but I believe her—not because she's my mother, and I blindly take her word for it," he chuckled, "but because I have lived through my own share of dark days and realize now the truth in her words.

"King, slave, noble, commoner, son, _daughter_ …we are all tested, and in many different ways. For some of us, our battles may turn out to be harder than others, but the point isn't always to win, or to make the correct decisions from the start. It's to _learn_. To err is human nature; it doesn't mean absolute failure. The beauty in living, in choosing light over our own darkness, is the constant hope for _redemption_. We are never beyond forgiveness or second chances, as long as we have faith and continue to make the most good that we can, for the remainder of our time. And for that, don't despair, my love. Do as Jon and your mother would have wanted of you: stay strong and live well."

Jace paused, smiling wistfully. "I've done things that I'm not proud of, but I think—no, I _believe_ , that one way or another, I have, or would, make up for it in time. I'll spend the rest of my life atoning for my mistakes if I have to." He leaned forward, cupping his wife's cheeks. "It's difficult, I understand that…but in order to live, we must also learn to forgive ourselves."

"And what about my father's forgiveness?" She finally looked up at him. "I don't have that."

"You know, I never managed to ask my parents for their forgiveness as well."

"That's different, Jace. You were actually a good son to your parents. And you never killed them." Her expression conveyed her resignation. "But I did. I decapitated my own father."

"Fine, so you did," Jace finally agreed, causing Clary to flinch. "But one way or another, Valentine was going to be executed anyway. His crimes would have seen him to that fate. You can't change the past, only move forward from it. I can't absolve you of your guilt, Clary, and maybe you will always carry some form of regret for Valentine's death, but I'm begging you; please don't let it consume you. One misdeed…one horrible decision…does not make you a bad person. You are not a monster. _I_ believe that."

"How could you?" She muttered.

"Would a monster be capable of feeling shame or regret?" He questioned her instead. Clary's answer was complete silence. "Look at it this way, Clary," he said in a gentler tone. "Despite everything, we've been blessed with so much…the throne, our baby… That seems to me like a second chance to make the rest of our lives right, not a punishment for the condemned."

When Clary finally reopened her eyes, her gaze was less despairing and more thoughtful. "I suppose…you're right," she said with a small, tentative smile. "We can never fully understand _everything_ but…"

"We must never lose faith," Jace finished. "I'm living proof of a man who has made many mistakes—you know that. I have killed more men in the past two years than I ever wished to do in this lifetime. I know it's not the same thing as what you've gone through—"

"But you're the only person right now whose words matter to me," she said. "Thank you, Jace." The statement was full of unspoken meaning: _Thank you for knowing what to say. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for loving me and being with me._

The couple was silent for a long while as the weight of their most recent discussion sank in. Clary's eyes were closed once again but instead of a grimace, she looked more at peace with herself. Jace still worried for her, but he knew that despite everything, his wife was strong. Young and riddled with so many battle scars of her own, but she was so strong. And like him, she only needed reassuring from time to time.

"Are you feeling better now?" He asked her softly as he stroked her hair. "No more morbid or depressing thoughts?"

Clary let out a breathless laugh. "Yes and no," she answered in accordance to his two questions. "It's passing— _slowly_ , but passing." Her eyes opened a little. Jace could see how much their conversation about her brother and father had drained the energy out of her, but he could see that she wasn't lying. As tired as she was, she looked lighter, her shoulders eased from the rigid frame of tension that had seized her before. "I don't think I'll ever stop regretting what I did to my father…but I promise I won't let it consume me."

Jace nodded. "And if you ever feel that it's too much, don't keep it to yourself. Talk to me. Talk to our friends. Talk to _anybody_. I don't ever want you to feel that you're alone in this. Okay?"

"Okay," Clary conceded as she laced their fingers together. "I know it sounds crazy, but even after everything that's happened, I forgive my father," she confessed.

Jace, having not expected that, was absolutely floored. Even after all this time, _he_ still hadn't found it within himself to forgive _Valentine_ yet. But Clary, who had endured years of her father's punishments and had her mother and brother taken away from her by the very same man, no less, could. It only solidified his belief of how good Clary's heart was—and how blessed he was to have married a woman as compassionate as her.

"I won't dispute that. It's your right to forgive whomever you wish." Jace looked down and bit his lip then, somewhat shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Clary, but I think it'll take me even longer to get over what your father did to my parents," he told her. "I can forgive him for what he did to me, but with _them_ …" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Clary."

"You have nothing to apologize to me for," Clary assured him. "But Jace, would you at least try?" Her voice was soft and imploring, her touch on his hand even more so. "My father may not deserve it…but you…I think you _need_ it."

Jace's mouth fell agape as he stared at his wife, stunned but completely unsure of how to respond to her declaration. The images of his mother's dying moments flashed before his mind's eye, and Jace's eyes watered. Unwilling to let the tears fall, he hastily shut them, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I know," was his shaky response. "I know I do." _Ironic. You're a hypocrite, Jace_ , he scolded himself. Was it not only moments ago that his wife had needed the reassurance and not him? How was it that even after so many years, he was still the one who struggled with the concept of letting go, while his wife, _bless her heart,_ had mastered it within a short period of time?

"I love you," she said, almost randomly, but also decidedly necessary to pull him out of his inner conflict. "I won't push you if you're not ready. But sweetheart… All I'm saying is to forgive, if only to give yourself the closure that _you_ need."

Jace entwined his fingers with Clary's. "Words of a wise queen, indeed." He gave her an affectionate smile. "You're right, sweetheart. I know you are. Thank _you_."

Clary smiled back at him. "It's something Jon would have said."

"I'm sure," he said with the hint of a grin.

One day, he would find it in himself to forgive Valentine. One day, he would look back on his enemy's life and feel sympathy for him, if anything else, instead of rage and hate. _One day—soon,_ he promised. If he was to be a better husband for Clary and a good father to his child, then he needed to start listening to his own advice. Yes, forgiving oneself was important, but so was forgiving the people who had hurt him and his family, as difficult as it might be. After all, what good was it to harbor animosity for a dead man?

"Now, I have something else I want to ask you," Clary interrupted his thoughts.

Jace bent down, pressing his lips chastely to her forehead. Clary gripped the back of his neck and closed her eyes again, reveling in the feeling of his lips grazing her skin.

"Then ask away, love," he whispered serenely.

"I know that men don't usually stay in the same room as their wives during childbirth, but will you be willing to make it an exception for me?" It was a complete change from the heavy topic they had been conversing about earlier, but a welcome change nonetheless.

Jace pulled back slightly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I must say, I'm slightly offended that you would lump me into the same category as those other men. As if leaving your side while you give birth to our baby has ever crossed my mind…"

As tired as she was, Clary rolled her eyes at him. "A simple yes would have sufficed," she mumbled. "I didn't want to assume or leave things to the last minute."

"It would take an act of God for me to leave your side," he promised, and meant it. From the moment he discovered about Clary's pregnancy, he had sworn to himself that he would be there for her through every milestone, including the childbirth. He had already spoken to enough midwives to know that the birthing experience would be excruciating for the mother. He wished that he could be the one to bear the pain on Clary's behalf…but he'd, again, accepted that it was another thing that he couldn't control. The most he could do was to support Clary through the pain and pray that she would be able to deliver their child safely.

"I have to go meet with the council soon," Jace said after a while. "Would you be okay on your own? I promise it won't take too long."

There was no response from his wife.

"Clary?" He looked down at her, only to discover that her eyes were closed and her breathing had grown even. Still, he asked, quieter and softer than before, "Sweetheart, are you asleep?" while tapping her gently on the nose.

Clary stirred a little and opened her mouth, presumably to answer him, but instead, the only sounds that came from her were her gentle snores. Jace smiled as he tucked the blankets around his wife's petite form and gently kissed her forehead. He was glad that their unplanned conversation had taken place, even if it had ended up wearing her out. He could see how it had lifted the almost invisible weight off of Clary, the serene expression she now wore on her face a wondrous sight that made Jace pause and admire. He wished that he could join her—

 _Later_ , he decided as he stood up from the bed. For now, another duty was calling him.

* * *

Much later that night, as Clary was sleeping, her back pressed up against Jace's warm chest as usual and his large hand splayed protectively over her belly, she was rudely awakened by a sharp pain in her stomach. Recognizing it to be similar to the contractions she had been experiencing for the past week, she slowly rolled over onto her back and practiced the deep breathing techniques Magnus had taught her, hoping that the pain would recede and eventually go away. But instead, it only intensified, spreading to her lower back and persisting a few minutes longer than what she perceived to be normal for practice contractions.

 _Could it be—_

Clary's face contorted into a heavy grimace as a gasp unintentionally escaped her. She pressed her right fist against her stomach and began rubbing tentative circles onto her belly. _Shh, little one. Please, not now,_ she thought when she felt the baby inside of her beginning to squirm.

Shakily, she tried to sit up next, leaning on her elbows for support… That was when her stomach clenched again, assaulting her with pain like never before. She groaned as she threw her head backwards, her eyes and teeth clenched shut while her hands gripped the bedsheets. When the particularly long contraction finally passed, she was breathing harshly—and undeniably wide awake.

"Jace," Clary whimpered as she nudged her husband's sleeping form.

She cupped the base of her round stomach, trying hard to hold back her tears when she felt a rivulet of warm water trickling down between her legs. Her eyes widened again, this time with fear as her suspicions were confirmed. _The baby is coming!_

"Jace," she tried again in a choked voice, patting his shoulder more urgently this time. "Honey, _please_ , wake up."

"Hmm?" He replied sleepily, his hand absentmindedly rubbing circles onto her stomach as he curled up to her. Then, he shifted slightly so that his head was now lying by her stomach, and nuzzled his face into her side.

In spite of herself, Clary felt irked that Jace, who was usually a light sleeper, chose tonight of all nights to be passed out like a log. A rational part of her understood that the events of today would have fatigued him as well, but she _really_ needed him to be conscious— _now!_

"Jace…"

As the third contraction began, Clary felt his lips press a soft kiss to her belly as he murmured sweet nothings to their baby. As endearing as his gesture was, she was holding back every bit of anger that was threatening to boil over—until he had the _audacity_ to snore.

"JACE HERONDALE!" Clary viciously screamed.

Jace was instantly jolted into a sitting position, his golden hair sticking up in several different directions. Even then, he stared uncomprehendingly at his wife, his golden eyes still clouded with sleep and his eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked, his sleepy voice innocent and astonishingly oblivious like a young boy's. "Are you hungry? Are you craving something?"

Had Clary not been feeling as if she were being ripped apart from the inside out, she would have probably smoothened out the wrinkles in between his eyebrows and kissed his pouty lips. But she was hardly feeling kind or patient at the moment.

"For heaven's sake!" She hissed as she shot her husband a murderous glare. If the economy of words had not been crucial as she struggled to merely breathe through the pain, Clary believed that she would have cursed her husband out for his slowness, as uncharacteristic as it would have been for her. "The baby's coming!"

A few moments passed in silence, save for Clary's heavier than usual breathing. Then Jace finally _woke up_ , his golden eyes wide with panic. Within seconds, he was kneeling on the bed, his arms braced out wide as if he were intending to catch the baby.

"B-baby? Baby! Clary? What do I do?" He whisper-shouted at her.

Clary let out another groan before slumping deeper against the pillows. She could hardly believe her luck. She had thought that with all the conversations they'd had about childbirth, Jace would have been prepared when the time finally came. But no, here was her husband, famous ex-gladiator and current king of Idris and Alicante, asking _her_ , the woman who was in severe pain, what _he_ was supposed to do. Could she do it herself—heave her laboring body off the bed and walk over to Magnus's room so that he could help her deliver their baby?

The pain made the decision for her.

Reaching for one of the smaller pillows on the bed, Clary clobbered Jace on the head with it repeatedly. _Yes, this ought to knock some sense into him!_ "GO. GET. MAGNUS. NOW!" She punctuated each word with a furious hit to the head with the pillow.

Despite the vestiges of sleep quickly clearing from his mind, Jace didn't even bother to shield himself from her blows. His only relief was that she was hitting him with a pillow and not something truly damaging, like the solid brass candelabra on the bedside table—which was within her fingers' reach! Realizing the potential danger he was in, Jace frantically scrambled out of the bed and threw the door open in record time, thankful that they had asked the good doctor to temporarily move into the palace with them a week ago.

"MAGNUS!"

* * *

Clary fell back against the pillows tiredly, her aching grip on Jace's hand still intact, her chest heaving with heavy pants as the searing pressure in her abdomen slowly faded away. She knew that it was only temporary, that the pain would slowly build up again and flare with such an intense heat that she would have to push. They had been at it for nearly two hours now, but her instincts told her that they were getting close.

Beside her, Jace smiled encouragingly at his wife. Reaching for the cool washcloth, he dabbed it gently against her sweaty forehead, then kissed her temple.

Despite her exhaustion, Clary smiled back at him, albeit a weak smile, turning her head slightly to connect their lips as she rested. Jace's hand slipped beneath her cream silk nightgown as they kissed, rubbing smooth, tender circles against the taut skin of her swollen belly. It was a much needed respite from the efforts of the young queen's labor. Both parents-to-be were tired, having been awoken from their slumber before the sunrise, but they were excited and anxious over their baby's arrival as well.

"He's crowning," Magnus interrupted them as he checked the little one's position. The doctor himself was in a disarray of sorts, having spared no time to look dapper and glittery for the delivery of the Herondale child. "It won't be long now, Clary. You're almost there."

"Hear that, sweetheart? You're almost there," Jace repeated in a breathlessly excited tone.

Clary could only manage to respond with a weak nod. Even if she couldn't muster the expression for it, she was happy to see her husband the way he was right now. Whatever reservations either of them might have had about their impending parenthood, Clary apprehensive that her youth would be a hindrance to her ability to become a good mother, it was smothered and dull in comparison to the moment.

As always, a part of her wished that her mother and brother could have shared in the joys that they were feeling, the almost untameable delirium at the thought of holding their newest family member in their arms, but she willed herself to let go of such wishful thinking. Jace was here. Magnus was here. Even Isabelle and her old nurse Dorothea were here. Her mother and Jon would have been proud of their little family, even if they weren't present in their lives anymore.

When Clary felt the next contraction slowly work its way up her abdomen, she propped herself upright, as far as she could go with Jace's hand supporting the back of her head and the other one clutched tightly in hers. Clary didn't need for Magnus to cue her. She pushed with all her might, for as long and as hard as she could, grunting when the pain intensified, like a wound being stabbed over and over again. Her knees shook furiously with the exertion as her nails dug into the skin of Jace's hand, and Clary—her conscience that was buried deep within—felt sorry for the pain that she was causing him. But she was also grateful, so utterly grateful that he didn't pull away. Instead, he bent down and touched his forehead to her temple, urging her on with sweet words of encouragement: _My strong wife. I love you. You can do it, Clary._

"You're doing well, Clary. Almost there," Magnus placated her.

Clary squeezed her eyes shut, clinging onto Jace's hand tighter as she bore down, a low groan escaping her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she clung on, refusing to retreat from the battle. _Almost there,_ she chanted in her head. _Almost there._

Then finally, a sweet, little cry pierced through the early pre-dawn air, alerting them to the arrival of their newborn.

Victorious from her labor, Clary collapsed against the pillows with a tired but relieved smile on her face. "We did it," she said through her recovering pants.

Jace grinned down at her and touched his lips to hers. If Clary had any doubts that the reason Jace chose her was because of her beauty, then those doubts were erased for good. She knew that she hardly resembled attractive, much less alluring, in her postpartum state, yet, his actions towards her conveyed nothing but total adoration. She loved him completely.

" _You_ did it," Jace said with a smile. "You did all the hard work. I'm so proud of you, Clary."

"As am I," Magnus said, looking unapologetic about his intrusion into their bubble. He was alternating between grinning at them and looking over at Isabelle and Dorothea, who were cooing at the whimpering bundle in the latter's arms. "Congratulations," he said.

Clary and Jace looked over at the pair, their gazes lingering on the wriggling bundle with identical expressions of longing on their faces.

"It's a boy," Isabelle finally announced.

The young couple smiled again at the news. "A boy," Jace repeated happily.

"Pardon me, m'dear," Clary's old nurse Dorothea said as she approached them after handing off the baby to Isabelle. "While Isabelle tends to your baby, we should get you cleaned up as well," she said with a kind smile on her face.

"That would be a great idea. I'll leave you to your privacy then," Magnus remarked from the foot of the bed. "If you need me, I'll just be down the hall. Madame Dorothea," he addressed the nurse, "I'll be brewing a special tea for Clary. Do make sure you serve it to her once she's changed and comfortable."

"Of course, Doctor."

To Clary, Magnus said, "Now, my dearest Biscuit, you may find the taste of this tea somewhat appalling, but it will be good for your recovery. I expect you to drink it to the very last drop."

Clary wrinkled her nose.

Beside her, Jace chuckled. "I'll see to it that she does. Thank you, Magnus."

Magnus smiled then turned to leave the room.

"Would you like to wait outside, Your Majesty? It might take a while," Dorothea said as she regarded the young king.

Jace looked at Clary, and for a moment, seemed to be debating something. "You should go see our baby first. I think Isabelle took him to his nursery to get him cleaned up."

Jace's eyes lit up at the mention of their baby, but it was conflicted by his hesitance to leave his wife. "But I think I should be with y-… A-Are you sure?"

"I'm in good hands, Jace," she said, nodding to the old nurse. "Madame Dorothea here has been looking after me since I was a little girl. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

He pressed a long kiss into her hair. "I love you. We'll see you soon," he whispered, then he, too, left the room.

* * *

By the time Clary was finally clean again and the stained bedsheets had been stripped and replaced with a fresh set of linens, she found herself anxiously sipping her bitter-tasting tea while Madame Dorothea went ahead to fetch Jace from their son's nursery. Although it had only been a few minutes, it felt like an eternity to Clary.

Absently, she touched her stomach and was momentarily assaulted by feelings of melancholy by the _emptiness_ left there. For nine whole months, she had carried her son within her, had felt him grow and move, and respond to her voice and touch. The bond she had created with him was like no other; as intense and powerful as the love she shared with Jace, but completely different as well. Her baby was a part of her, and to have him suddenly _removed_ , felt oddly chilling. Would she ever grow used to having her body to herself again?

Certainly, it was a strange thought to have for one as young as she was, but she couldn't help it. Yes, being pregnant had been no easy task; to endure the physical aches and pains as her body expanded to support a growing life, to give birth to said life, was something that no other human could understand unless they had gone through the experience themselves. But the presence of that other life had been a great comfort to her all the same. For the first time ever, Clary was never, tangibly speaking, alone. She had her tiny 'helper', this wonderful little miracle to share in her every emotion, to keep her grounded when her sorrows threatened to overtake her. Now, he wasn't _there_ —and Clary could already feel herself missing him. Was this how she would always feel when she was separated from him, this uncomprehending ache of loss and detachment? Her son was barely an hour old, and already she was fearful of when he would grow old enough to be independent of her, when he would no longer _need_ her.

Just as she set the cup down on her bedside table, disturbed by the sudden thoughts that had distracted her from the celebratory mood of the moment, she heard her husband's throat clear, and looked up to see him cradling a bundle of white blankets in his arms. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized who he was holding. _Their son._

In an instant, the solemn fog was replaced by the light feelings of love, relief and excitement. Days where she would worry about their child growing up were still far away. He was still a baby, and she, his mother, would do everything she could to provide for him _now_ , to ensure that he grew up good and virtuous, to be even better than she and Jace were.

"Look who's finally here to see you," Jace cooed in the most gentle voice she'd ever heard him use. He carefully made his over their bed, then with even greater care than she had ever seen him handle anything before, he transferred their baby into her waiting arms.

"Our little prince," Jace announced softly.

 _I love you,_ Clary thought to him, happy beyond words that he was her husband and the father to their child. Jace, in spite of his flaws, was a promise of happier days. A man who had always treasured the concept of family would no doubt be wonderful father, far surpassing her own. Their son was very lucky—and it made Clary very, very happy.

As she turned her gaze to the bundle, eyes meeting the tiny cherubic face for the first time, Clary found herself entranced by her precious little boy. With full lips, long golden eyelashes, and wisps of wavy blond hair that looped into tiny curls at his nape, he was almost identical to his father, though it was obvious to see that his button nose and pale ivory skin were all hers. Her heart instantly melted with love for her child, but even more so when he chose that exact moment to open his eyes, revealing a pair of emerald green orbs flecked with gold.

"Our most precious gift," she breathed out.

Jace, having settled into her side, wrapped his arm around Clary, forming a protective cradle around their little family. "He sure is," he agreed.

"Hello, my sweet boy. We're your mommy and daddy," she cooed. The newborn made a soft whimpering noise, which prompted Clary to shower his head with a splatter of soft kisses. "My beautiful baby. Yes, you are. Are you hungry, my sweetheart?"

Without waiting for a reply, Clary pulled down the sleeve of her nightgown, then carefully guided her baby's head towards her breast. It took a while for him to latch on, but when he finally did, she felt a wave of triumph at being able to feed her son. Was this how her own mother felt when she'd fed her and Jonathan? She couldn't help but wonder as she tenderly pressed her lips to her son's cheek. Instantly, she was rewarded by a feeling of indescribable warmth, her heart filling with so much love that she felt as if she could burst.

Her eyes met Jace's, and she smiled at him when he noticed his adoring gaze. "What are we going to name him, Jace?" She asked him after a while had passed.

Jace turned towards their son then before gently cupping the young boy's cheek. His thumb stroked his baby-soft skin, back and forth, back and forth, while he thought over his wife's question. Finally—

"Before you say anything, allow me to reiterate, husband mine, that we are _not_ naming him Jace Junior or Jace II," Clary warned.

Jace met his wife's mocking glare with feigned disappointment. "But, oh, Clary…those were at the very top of my list!" He paused, then started to wriggle his eyebrows at her teasingly. "How about _Little_ Jace? We could call him LJ for short."

"We are not naming our son after you," Clary replied without missing a beat. Though she was still glaring at him, her eyes conveyed nothing but amusement. "I have no inclination to inflate your ego anymore than it already has."

"In that case, why don't _you_ name him?"

"Because he's our firstborn son. I think _you_ should have the honor of naming him."

"That makes no sense at all."

"Jace…"

"Very well." Jace chuckled again before leaning down to plant a soft kiss on their son's head. When he pulled away, his callused fingers gently stroking the little boy's cheek, his face lit up with pride as he murmured, "Jonathan Christopher Herondale."

He turned his warm golden eyes to Clary, who was openly gaping at him, tears gathering in her eyes. "It's a strong name," he remarked softly. "A _hero's_ name, don't you think?"

Her bottom lip quivered as she nodded happily. "It's perfect. JC," she said as she cradled the baby boy closer to her, snuggling back further into Jace's arms.

Jace willingly obliged as he pulled Clary's head to rest in the crook of his neck. He turned his head, planting another long, sweet kiss onto her temple. "JC… Sounds an awful lot like 'Jace', don't you think?" He smiled against Clary's hair as one of JC's chubby fists wrapped itself around his index finger. "So you see, dear Clarissa… I win, after all."

" _You!_ " Clary nipped him playfully on his neck. "You better take that back, Jace Herondale."

"Never, ever, Clarissa Herondale," he retorted. Then, turning towards JC, the novelty that was their newborn son drawing his attention again, he remarked, "He's a hungry one, isn't he?"

"His father's appetite, no doubt," Clary quipped. "Speaking of which, you've put on weight, Jace. No surprises there, of course, what with the amount of honey cakes you've been eating lately. If it weren't for the fact that I was showing, people might've thought that you were the pregnant one instead of me."

Before Jace could think of a suitable comeback, JC finally unlatched from his mother and squawked his two cents. "See? Even our son agrees with me," Clary giggled as she moved the newborn over her shoulder and began patting his back to coax a burp out of him.

Jace rolled his eyes at her, though his lips helplessly twitched into an amused smirk. "Oh dear me, what is this plot that my own wife has created against me?" He couldn't resist adding to their light-hearted banter. "Don't listen to Mommy, _Jace_. She's just a short, little meanie. Pledge your loyalty to Daddy, and we'll eat all the yummy cakes we want from _Taki's_!"

"Not going to happen, Jace," Clary replied. "And his name is JC, _not_ Jace."

Jace shrugged. "I'll change your mind on that someday, sweetheart. After all, I am the love of your life," he said as he rested his palm against her rosy cheek.

Clary immediately leaned into his touch with a soft smile on her face. "That you are," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean I'm giving in to your whims."

Jace smirked. "No harm in trying."

"Of course." In a softer voice, Clary told him, "I love you, Jace. So much."

"I love you too, Clary," Jace said as he pressed his mouth against hers in a tender, loving kiss. When they broke apart, he bent down and nuzzled his nose against JC's. The young boy looked up at his father, green eyes gleaming with innocent wonder and cooed. "You too, little one."

Within the next few minutes, with JC snuggled safely in between them, the young family succumbed to their exhaustion and fell asleep, blissfully content in each other's arms. For Jace and Clary, their journey as the star-crossed lovers, as gladiator and princess, were over, but their journey as king and queen, the hope of a rising new nation, and as partners and parents, had only begun. There would always be darker days to come, and new trials and tribulations to face, but for now, they chose to live for the present…and for the promise of redemption.

 **THE END**

* * *

 _ **A/N: Yes, that's the**_ **official** _ **ending to Redemption, guys. How many of you loved Clace's baby and the fact that they named him after Jon?**_

 _ **Old readers, you would have most** **likely spotted quite a bit of changes made to this chapter. For one, I added a new scene in where Clary and Jace discussed the aftermath of her decision to partake in Valentine's execution. Now, t** **he reason why I included that scene is because originally, we never got around to exploring how Clary felt about killing her father, which didn't sit well with me. Killing Valentine was a major, life-changing decision for Clary's character, so I felt that it was warranted to explore the emotional and psychological repercussions of that decision. No one kills without feeling 'something', unless that person is a psychopath. I also wanted to show that Clary, though riddled with typical human flaws, has some pretty great strengths where her principles are concerned. She is definitely something to admire because of her decision to forgive her father despite how horribly she was hurt by him in the past.**_

 _ **Also, I think there's nice twist from this scene. It started out with Jace trying to teach her a lesson about self-forgiveness, but ends with her teaching him about the strength in forgiving others. That's important I think, in reflecting how there's an equal amount of give and take in their relationship.**_

 _ **And also, as a writer, I didn't want to write a long, multi-chapter story that has no value whatsoever for readers to take away from.**_ _ **That said, to each his own. I respect each and every one of you and your respective thoughts and beliefs, and only hope for the same in kind. If at any point throughout this fic, I have offended anyone in any way, I'd like to take this time to apologize and hope that you will forgive me for my shortcomings.**_

 ** _This has been a wonderful journey. I'm happy to have returned and for the opportunity to rework on this fic, because truthfully, I feel that I have grown and learned so much now, as both a writer and as an individual, than when I first began over 4 years ago. For those you have been there with me since the very start, I thank you for your love, understanding and support. Hope all of you have enjoyed what I've put up. Pretty please, do review :)_**

 ** _Ahh, one more thing. Old readers, you may or may not recall this, but way back when, when I was on my old account, I told you guys that I was working on a sequel for Redemption and even posted a few snippets—back then, of course. So if anyone's wondering if that will still be pursued here, my honest answer is this. Although I still have the plot skeleton and old drafts of what I was working on, it's likely a 'no' or at most just a 'maybe'. I don't want to make promises I may not be able to keep, or start something I can't finish. Writing takes lots of time...and I never want to post anything that's shoddy or half-heartedly written...so we shall see._**

 ** _BUT, for those who still want more Clace content from the Redemption-universe, then keep an eye out for the outtakes (deleted scenes)._**

 _ **Until next time,**_

 _ **Peace xoxo**_


	27. Outtake 1

_**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **OUTTAKE 1: AFTER JON'S FUNERAL**

 **(PRE-EPILOGUE)**

Jace sat on the edge of the bed next to Clary, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he stroked her unkempt hair back from her face. She was staring blankly into space, occasionally sniffling, though her previously tear-stained eyes now remained dry.

It had been an hour since Jonathan's funeral…an hour since the young king's life had been honored and he was laid to rest, buried amongst the rest of the dead royalty in Idris.

As for Valentine, his body was buried on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, a lone plain headstone marking where his remains now resided. Despite the number of years he'd sat on the throne, he wasn't given the honor of a king's funeral, only the minimum rites carried out upon those who had passed on.

"Clary? Sweetheart?" Jace tried in a hesitant voice.

Still, his wife remained unresponsive. The only sounds emitting from her were that of her breathing, laced with the occasional hiccup. She had been that way ever since he had carried her out of the cemetery and back into their room: catatonic, impassive, _lifeless_ …as if she weren't even there anymore—as if her soul had been left behind in that cemetery.

Jace pinched the bridge of his nose in contrite, silently admonishing himself for having insisted upon his wife's attendance at Jonathan's funeral in the first place. After a sleepless night as he held his weeping wife in his arms, he had rolled out of bed shortly after dawn broke, only to discover the Consul Patrick Penhallow at his bedroom door.

Having been left temporarily in charge after the recent Idrisian monarch's death, the latter had come to inform him of Jonathan's funeral procession, which had been scheduled to take place at nine that morning. Jace had lingered at the door to talk a little more with Patrick, until Clary had finally gained consciousness and called out for him, her voice brittle and raspy.

They had talked for a short while, Jace telling his wife about her brother's funeral while her green eyes progressively grew wider with grief and dread. She had looked so pale, but Jace, who had been inattentive due to his night of wakefulness, had brushed it off.

"I don't want to go," Clary had told him, her voice barely rising above a whisper. Speaking had seemed the most difficult task for her at the time, but she still tried. "I don't want my memory of my brother to be tainted by the image of him dead and still as a statue, never to wake again."

She had spoken…but he hadn't listened.

"Jon gave up his life for us. The least we could do is to pay him our respects—he deserves that much from us," he had argued instead. Jace hadn't meant to sound harsh— _had he?_ —but in the heat of the moment, all he could think about was the image of Jonathan with the poisoned dagger sticking out of his lower abdomen…the dagger he had taken for _him_. Although he cared deeply about his wife, the only thought that had occupied his mind at the time was his guilt. And in turn, he had inadvertently projected that guilt onto Clary.

Clary had looked conflicted, but eventually, she conceded, too weighed down by her own exhaustion. "Okay," she'd whispered.

Then, in the two hours that followed as they got ready for the funeral, Jace began reconsidering Clary's words. He'd questioned himself repeatedly whether he should respect what she wanted by letting her sit out of it, but changed his mind again at the last minute.

 _It will do her good,_ he had thought. _Seeing her brother for the last time will hopefully give her the closure that she needs._ He related it to his own parents' death, of the closure he never had with them, and how it had haunted him. If he'd been given the chance to honor their memory with a proper funeral eight years ago, he would have taken it in a heartbeat. It would have been difficult, for one as young as he had been to be confronted with the reality of his parents' untimely deaths, but he believed that it would have given him some measure of peace.

And really, that was what he'd wanted for Clary, too. To have her own peace of mind.

Only, his intentions had backfired tremendously.

The moment Jonathan's body had been lowered into the ground, Clary had broken down in a way Jace had never seen before, screaming and howling like a woman who had lost her grip on sanity, demanding that they leave her brother's body be. In fact, if Jace hadn't restrained her, he was more than certain that she would have flung herself into the grave with her brother and try to shake his deceased body back to life—either that or she would have forced them to bury her alive together with her brother's corpse.

Fortunately, Magnus Bane had also been in attendance and came prepared. While Jace had been occupied with trying to coax his wife out of her hysterics, he had stepped forward with a needle and injected her with a sedative, rendering the writhing princess unconscious within seconds.

"I'd suspected that something like this would happen," Magnus had told him shortly after they'd moved Clary into their bedroom. "You shouldn't have brought her. It was too soon."

"Don't you think I realize that?" Jace had snapped back. "I just… If it were me, I would have been outraged that I missed my brother's funeral," he'd said, his tone weaker.

"Clary isn't _you_ , Jace. She deals with loss differently than you do," Magnus had responded with a shake of his head. "I know you meant well, but you can't force your perspective onto her. _Listen to her._ Let her come to terms with Jon's death in her own way, in her own time."

Jace's silence had conveyed his agreement with Magnus's assessment, and the doctor took his leave after imparting a few well-intentioned words on how to deal with Clary upon her waking.

Jace had remained glued to the chair by his wife's bedside for hours, the events of the day replaying itself over and over again in his mind as he warred with feelings of anger, guilt, self-loathing and despair. Ultimately, it came back to Magnus's words— _Clary isn't you. Clary isn't you. Clary isn't you_ —and he cursed himself for his lack of sensitivity in his approach towards the delicate situation.

Magnus was right, of course. Clary wasn't him. He shouldn't have forced her when she wasn't ready. Yes, she might probably have a few regrets down the line when she recalled her own absence at her brother's funeral, but he doubted it would make her go over the edge as watching Jonathan's burial almost did.

 _Too little, too late,_ he regarded his realization. There was little use in pondering the alternative when the time for such decisions had come and passed. It was only "the here on out" that he should concern himself with—how was he to deal with a grieving wife, when he, too, was far from the shining example of a bereaved family member.

For eight years, he'd dealt with the loss of his parents by throwing himself into his gladiator training, feeding his grief with poisonous feelings of rage, hatred and a wanton desire for revenge. No, all things considered, Jace felt himself the least capable person imaginable to be supporting his wife through her difficult time of grief. But it was _his_ responsibility, _his_ honor, _his_ burden. He couldn't—wouldn't desert his wife. He had made a vow to her, to stand by her side regardless of what adversities came their way.

But by God, was he _tired_. Save for the night when they'd pledged themselves to each other in marriage, and the brief, stolen moments of intimacy between them, their union had mostly been fraught with turmoil. Even with Sebastian's and Valentine's deaths, the relief was minuscule. For with the death of those tyrants, Jonathan had paid the ultimate price with his life.

A sharp pang shot through his chest at the thought of his brother-in-law. Was it only yesterday that Jon had been _breathing_ and _talking_ to him? It was a sobering reminder that they were all living on borrowed time, that life was transient and every second that ticked by was fragile and so, so precious. At any moment their lives could be over; at any moment their existence could cease and they would become no more than a memory of a person who'd lived yesterday.

Jace bent forward and buried his face into the mattress. He'd wanted to cry out of all of his frustrations, his anguish, his guilt—when Clary had chosen that exact moment to stir to consciousness. Her green eyes fluttered open, her lips parted, but they made no sound. Several more minutes passed in deafening silence. He stared at his wife now, wishing, hoping, _praying_ that she would do a little more than just stare into space with a dead look on her face.

"I don't know what to do here, Clary," he finally admitted, breaking the silence. "Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want. Just talk to me, Clary, please. Don't… don't shut me out."

Clary tilted her head towards him, meeting his gaze, but her eyes seemed to pass right through him. "He's gone," she said hoarsely, her emerald green eyes unblinking. "He's really gone…"

Jace felt the knot in his throat tighten. How was he supposed to respond to that? _I'm sorry? I know?_ Neither seemed to be helpful remarks. If anything, they would probably cause Clary to resent him and push him further away from her, and Jace didn't want that. Fatigued as he was to deal with the fallout of their tragedy, he was even more afraid of being distanced from his wife, the only family he had left. He was afraid of being pushed back into solitude, where his only source of escape then came from competing in the arena.

Finally: "It should have been me," Jace said, knowing no other words to speak but this, the words of his guilty conscience. "Jon wouldn't be dead if it weren't for me. It's my fault—"

"No," Clary's whisper cut him off. "It's not your fault…please don't say it's your fault."

Jace's golden eyes softened at her words, even if his heart continued to ache.

"Jon wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself for what happened," Clary continued, her voice sounding miles away. "And I don't want you to either."

Jace wanted to believe her. But how could he when the words coming out of her mouth sounded so obligatory? When despite everything, she just seemed so…vacant? Jace was a cynic; as much as he wanted to believe that his wife loved him and bore no ounce of hatred towards him, a part of him wondered _why_ _not_.

 _Don't go there,_ his inner voice hissed. _Remember what Magnus said. Clary isn't you. Accept her love for what it is, even if she may not understand it herself._ The latter thought in itself was hard to comprehend, but Jace decided now wasn't the time to be devoting himself to his cogitations. Clary needed him to be present—to be with her in the _now_.

"Tell me what you're feeling," Jace said, cupping her cheeks in both hands, gently coaxing her to focus on him. "I don't care about me. Tell me what I can do to help _you_."

Her eyes were glazed, unseeing, as they bored into Jace's. "I don't know," Clary whispered before averting her gaze. "Everything hurts." Her face scrunched up into a tight grimace, as if the effort of focusing on the now was giving her a terrible migraine.

"Do you want me to call Magnus?" He asked, holding her closer to him.

"No." Clary shook her head. "Stay with me. Just hold me." She gripped his tunic tightly before burying her face into his chest.

In between the staggering silence, Jace could hear an unspoken request: _Just give me time—_ and an even stronger plea: _Don't leave me._

"I won't leave. I promise, sweetheart." He kissed the top of her head, listening intently to the sound of her breathing as she slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

The nightmares would come again that night, but Jace held firmly onto his promise to remain by his wife, to be the arms that held her tightly no matter what.

* * *

 **One Week Later:**

"Good morning, my love." Jace pressed his lips to his wife's head in a gentle caress.

As their eyes met, Clary's lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, but failed miserably. Jace's heart plummeted again. He had hoped to see improvement in his wife's condition, but it seemed that such a day was still a great distance further in the horizon.

Jace suppressed a sigh as he stood up from their shared bed. In the time that had passed since Jonathan's funeral, Clary had barely spoken, moved or eaten—although it was not for the lack of trying on Jace's part. Anytime he tried engaging her in conversation, she would take several seconds longer than usual to respond, and even then, her answers would be strictly limited to monosyllables. Attempts at moving Clary beyond the confines of their chambers hadn't worked either. In her mournful state, his wife's energy had depleted and her body grown frail at such an alarming rate, that she could barely stand on her own two feet, much less walk! Even the nutrients Magnus had insisted he gave her in her food had yet to yield any results.

Removing the covers from Clary's prone form, Jace coaxed her into sitting up. "How are you feeling this morning, sweetheart?"

Clary gave him a strained smile. "Fine."

"Better than yesterday?" He encouraged her.

Her smile grew—more tense, more contrived. "Yes."

Jace nodded at the lie, but chose to remain optimistic. "Good news. My meeting with the council has been scheduled for the afternoon instead, so I'm all yours to command for this morning. How does breakfast at the dining hall today sound?" He asked. "And after, perhaps, we can sit out in the gardens, get some fresh air…"

"No," was Clary's sudden curt reply.

Jace tried not to frown. Every day with Clary post-Jonathan was a difficult lesson in patience. Indeed, he found himself to be more tolerant and forbearing than most days in his youth, but as more time wore on, he could feel his frustration building. He knew that Clary had no control over her emotions—that she was entitled to feel how she wanted to feel—but it was, at times, aggravating how she continually refused his well-intentioned offers. Did she not _want_ to get better? Did she not want to emerge from her doldrums and feel _happy_?

 _How long are we going to be like this? How long are you going to deny me—deny_ yourself _of the chance to heal? Can't you see that I'm hurting too, that I need you too?_

 _Come back to me, Clary._

"It's okay," Jace said aloud. "We can stay in here and spend more time with each other. I'll get one of the maids to send the food up to our chambers. But first…a bath."

Hearing no protest, Jace hooked his arm underneath Clary's knees while the other supported her by her back. He cradled her tiny body to his chest tightly, carefully, as if he were afraid that she would break. Clary wrapped her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder and her green eyes firmly closed in the poor imitation of rest.

The young king frowned to himself. Clary had always felt light in his arms, but now, she felt even more so, frighteningly so. The vestiges of anger he felt towards his wife evaporated, leaving him with worry, concern and fear.

He'd heard stories of people who gave themselves over to grief to such a degree that they ended up perishing from it. He fervently hoped that Clary wouldn't be one of them. He couldn't fathom what he would do if he lost his wife in the wake of his recent ascension to the thrones of Idris and Alicante. No matter what Clary might feel or think about it, he needed her—not just as his queen and co-ruler, but as his wife and life companion. He needed her just as his father had needed his mother.

As they entered the bathroom, Jace gingerly placed his wife on her feet next to the sink. Clary stumbled a little, her balance still a ways off, and Jace quickly reached out to steady her.

"Here, sweetheart. Just hold onto me," he told her as he helped relieve her of the loose garment she was wearing. Clary subconsciously leaned into him and sighed.

As her body was bared to him, Jace fought the urge to flinch—or to cry. He hadn't actually _seen_ Clary like this in days—Isabelle or her other handmaidens usually tended to the young queen's morning routine in his stead—therefore the shock of her physical transformation utterly shook him. Clary had always been petite, but what little fat she'd had on her had now largely faded, leaving her with a little more than skin and bones.

"My beautiful wife, I love you so much," Jace said, suddenly overcome with the need to tell her so, to remind her that he was there, and he _was_ a reason for her to stay and fight. Jace hadn't married Clary for her looks, but for her heart. And he hoped that somewhere inside her withering frame, her heart still beat and called out for him, as his did for hers. "I know it hasn't been easy for us, but my love, I am most grateful for you. _I love you._ "

Clary looked up at him, and the haze in her eyes cleared, if only for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said in a raspy voice. "I'm sorry…that I can't be a better wife for you." It was the most Clary had said in days, that Jace was partly relieved, even if her words had been self-reproachful.

"Shh, sweetheart. Don't say things like that," he whispered as he planted a soft kiss on her mouth. Clary returned his smile tremulously. "You're still the only one that I want—the one that I _love_. Please don't think of yourself as anything less."

Lifting her into his arms, Jace gently lowered her into the lavender-scented bath that Isabelle had prepared when she'd come by their chambers earlier. Clary let out a contented sigh—a reaction that came rarely for her of late—that Jace couldn't help but smile a little again. He reached for the soap-soaked sponge before slowly lathering it onto her body, starting from her neck to her arms, then her chest and back and feet. There was nothing sensual about his touch, only soothing, and Clary began to relax a little more, her body sinking deeper into the bath.

Jace watched his wife with a soft smile. If he'd known that giving his wife a bath would have elicited this kind of reaction from her, he would have done it sooner. A part of him wanted to start a conversation with her, to know where her mind was, if she was ready to resurface from the depths of her sorrow and be with him again as his wife, queen and equal, but Jace doubted 'pushing' her like that would improve her bearing. Clary needed to come around in her own way, in her own time, as Magnus had stressed to him before.

Whatever Jace wanted, he had to be patient. He had to wait—

Although not for _too long_ as Clary unexpectedly guided his face to hers, melding their lips in a soft, sweet, and affectionate kiss. Her lips felt slightly chapped and dry, but Jace didn't care. His wife had initiated it, and that alone spoke volumes.

"What was that?" He asked, golden eyes hazy dazed as their lips parted and Clary murmured something softly—too softly for him to pick up on.

"I said," Clary giggled quietly, "I love you, Jace."

The words that left her mouth were quiet but sincere—words that Jace had been starving to hear from her lips in what had felt like _decades_ now. Whatever emotion he'd felt before—anger, hopelessness, fear, anxiety—none of it even mattered anymore.

Blinking away tears from his eyes, Jace cupped his wife's face tenderly. "Say…say it again."

Clary giggled again—a sound he most adored!—then obliged. "I love you," she said.

Jace's grew was so wide that he could almost split his face in half. Miracles did happen, it seemed, especially when one least expected it.

 _The reward of patience,_ a voice whispered to him, sounding much like his late mother.

"Again, please."

Clary's hand emerged from the water and she playfully splashed him with it. Jace didn't even splutter, too enamored by the miraculously smiling beauty that was Clarissa Herondale.

"Exactly how many times do I have to repeat myself?" She asked him, her voice stronger this time. There was an old feistiness to it, too, one he'd come to associate with his fiery redhead.

"As many times as possible. So that I never forget."

Clary tapped her chin with her index finger, looking partly awkward and self-conscious doing it, as if she was remembering her recent inertia, but was relenting nonetheless. "Jace Herondale, husband, my dearest beloved," she caught her breath, almost gasping—

"I love you." They chimed in unison, then laughed, the atmosphere between them growing steadily lighter than before. When their chuckles had dissipated, a serene silence fell over them, a moment made more tender by the simple gesture of holding each other's hand.

"If the offer still stands," Clary began softly, slowly growing used to her voice again. "I'd love to have breakfast with you in the dining hall…and to spend time with you in the gardens after."

Jace's face brightened. "Of course we can do that."

"Fair warning, though, my beloved. I'm afraid that my legs are still weak. It might take us a day or two before we reach the dining table," she joked.

"A day or two well-spent in my opinion," Jace chuckled. "Or I could just carry Milady in my arms, as one befitting of the status of a charming husband as I am."

"An improper suggestion," Clary blushed. "People will stare."

"So let them," the young king shrugged. "Last I checked, this is our home. And we are long overdue for some newlywed romance."

Clary turned crimson again but made no move to object. "If you insist."

"Oh, sweetheart, I most certainly do."

* * *

 **Another Week Later:**

"Magnus!" Jace leapt forward, unthinkingly grabbing the doctor by the lapels of his undoubtedly expensive and stunningly bedazzled coat. "Is Clary—Is she okay? What's wrong with her? Please tell me she will be all right—"

"For Heaven's sake, Jace! Calm yourself!" Magnus interrupted with a withering glare in the young king's direction. "And King or not, remove your hands from my coat at once!"

Cringing at the flamboyant doctor's screechy tone, Jace quickly complied and released his grasp from the aforementioned coat. "Clary—"

"Is fine," Magnus answered. "She's resting. As she should be."

"She's _fine_?" Jace scoffed in a cynical tone. "My wife has been sick nearly every morning—and _night_ —and you're telling me that she's 'fine'?"

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Yes," he intoned monotonously. "She is fine."

"LIES!" Jace roared.

Magnus sighed, with no small amount of exasperation. "Go inside. Speak with your wife if you don't believe me," he shooed him off with a wave of his hand. "In fact, I highly recommend it. Clary is adamant that she be the one to tell you about it herself. Something about it being a _special_ moment between husband and wife."

Jace glared at the doctor before stomping off in the direction of the bedroom he shared with his wife. Suspicion and anger quickly turned into great worry and fear upon seeing Clary sitting up in their bed, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her hands.

 _No, no, no!_ His mind screamed. Clary couldn't be _dying_ , could she? Jace quickly hurled the vile thought out of his head while trying to maintain a tight control on his emotions. No, that couldn't be it. Magnus had specifically used the word 'special'. And while he was known for his dramatic flairs, Magnus wouldn't possibly mislead him into thinking the opposite if the news were terrible…would he?

His attempt at reassuring himself barely helped him to calm his racing heart, so eventually, Jace pretended to ignore it as he approached his— _crying?_ —wife.

"Sweetheart," he began, rather weakly, "Is something the matter?"

Upon hearing his voice, Clary finally looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, and smiled radiantly. "Jace!" She exclaimed to his utter confusion.

"Clary?"

"Jace!" She repeated, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Sweetheart," he croaked, "What's wrong? Is something wrong? Why are you crying?"

To his incredulity, Clary began _giggling_.

Jace's heart dropped to his stomach. He didn't want to think of it, but a part of him wondered if his wife had gone insane. What else could explain her peculiar behavior? Jace had never met anyone who was joyful over the fact that they were ill, possibly _dying_ —

No, he refused to think of it! Clary wasn't—she couldn't be—

As if sensing her husband's imminent panic attack, Clary pulled his face towards hers and met his lips in a long, hard kiss. He returned the kiss feverishly, desperately, as if he was pleading with her through the kiss to not leave him—as if he was kissing her for the _last_ time.

When they broke their embrace, Clary cupped his face, caressing his bottom lip with her thumb when she saw it tremble. "My love, I have the most wonderful news," she began.

"This disease," Jace interrupted, unable to help himself. "It's curable, right? It's not anything dangerous or life-threatening, is it?"

Clary rolled her eyes. "Sweetheart," she said, using his pet name for her, "I am not sick."

"But—"

"I am pregnant," Clary finished.

Jace's mouth fell open in surprise, and his golden eyes widened, staring at her in disbelief.

"P-pregnant?" He repeated, as if asking his wife what the word meant.

Clary reached for his hand and guided it to her still, flat stomach where their unborn child now resided. Jace's eyes widened to the size of saucers, finally comprehending, then—

"Pregnant," he breathed softly as he gently rubbed her stomach.

Clary placed her own hand on top of Jace's, a wider smile on her face. "Yes. You're going to be a father, Jace," she told him.

"Baby," he murmured, the word sounding almost foreign to his own ears. "My baby. _Our_ baby," he murmured adoringly. He looked up at Clary with tears in his eyes before enveloping her in a sweet kiss, one that conveyed everything he felt in that moment: gratitude, happiness, disbelief and mostly, love.

When they pulled away, Clary reclined against the pillows, while Jace rested his head on top of his wife's stomach, a wide smile on his face. He wrapped his arms around her torso and splayed his hand across her abdomen.

"I love you," he whispered as Clary gently kneaded her fingers through his curls, the familiar gesture soothing enough that Jace's eyes began to slowly flutter shut.

"God, thank you," was the last thing Clary heard before she felt Jace's soft lips press against the nightgown covering her stomach and they both fell into a deep-rested sleep.

* * *

 _ **A/N: The first of the outtakes for this series! Hope you guys enjoyed it!**_

 _ **As always, thanks for reading and pretty please, review me your thoughts :)**_

 _ **ps. I've recently changed the cover photo for Redemption, as well as my other stories, so hope you guys weren't alarmed by that. Just a little something I've been tinkering around with in the last few days. What do you guys think of the new artwork? The old one was done quite haphazardly 4 years ago, so I decided I wanted something new.**_

 _ **Until next time, peace xoxo**_


	28. Outtake 2

_**Author's Note: Hello lovelies, it's been a while since I last updated. Here's another outtake for you. Enjoy!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **OUTTAKE 2: THE ROYAL CORONATION**

 **(PRE-EPILOGUE)**

Jace stared hard at himself in the mirror, a feeling of deep self-consciousness settling over him. The sight of his current reflection was a foreign one, so much so that he felt as if he was looking at another man—and not one he would have particularly admired back in his days as a gladiator.

While he had known a relatively _easy_ life in his early years, his parents had never taught him to seek materialism or luxury; days spent as a gladiator had led him to grow accustomed to an even more minimalistic and spartan lifestyle where the clothes he wore on his back served only to preserve his modesty and to protect him from the elements. Now, only a few months into his newly ordained role as a king, Jace's mindset had not changed. Yes, he admittedly dressed a lot better than he did before, but his style bespoke of clean lines and simplicity. Let his wife dress in frills and silks and laces if she wanted to; Jace was content with _simple_.

But today, Jace's attire was quite the contrary. Dressed in a gold-colored tunic that was tastefully decorated with several embroidered patterns at the chest and sleeves, matching pants and newly shined boots, he looked, undoubtedly, the part of a royal. Nothing about his current appearance merited any complaints, he noted begrudgingly. Patrick and his council members would certainly approve.

Even so, Jace couldn't repress his sigh. While the material of the tunic, slightly thicker than his preferred linen shirts, was somewhat comfortable, the collar was irritatingly _itchy_! Why his wife had to insist upon the band-shaped collar he would never understand. But more than that, he felt completely out of his own skin. Was his just him or was his entire ensemble too gaudy—ostentatious— _pretentious_?

"Why, Your Majesty, don't you look debonair?"

Just barely able to contain his wince at the sound of the unexpected but welcome voice, Jace recovered with a graceful twirl to meet his wife's soft, admiring gaze. His golden eyes widened marginally as he took her in, any discomfort over his appearance temporarily quelled by Clary's arrival. She looked beautiful, of course, he could never deny it, yet it never ceased to take his breath away any time he saw her in one of her fancy dresses.

To match his own attire, Clary wore a stunning, shimmering silk gown of a rich gold color, her red hair, usually worn loosely around her shoulders, held together in an intricate braided crown. A lone pendant rested against her collarbone—one which had once belonged to Jace's mother and passed down to her—but the most stunning addition to her person, Jace found, was the visible growth of her belly and the current residence of their tiny, four-month-old miracle.

As surreal and humbling as it was to be a participant in this brand-new chapter of his life, it was far more surreal to witness firsthand the growth of the child that he and Clary had conceived through their marriage, the latter of which was still young and new in itself. It was just another thing about life he was learning—

Certainly, plans could be made, but it could also change at a moment's notice, with or without his input. Case in point, he'd barely grasped his responsibilities as husband and king, and soon, he would be adding another title to his mantle: _Father_. The word held so much weight.

Jace was, naturally, terrified, but at the same time, happy and grateful beyond words. Remembering how it had felt when Clary had shared the news that she was carrying his child, and seeing the evidence of its existence… It still boggled his mind the one morning he'd woken up to find a visible curvature to his wife's stomach, one he had sworn hadn't been there the night before. And with each passing day, his wife's belly only continued to swell, a fact that made her self-conscious but, Jace thought fondly, only served to add to her womanly radiance.

"My dear husband, I believe that it is etiquette to respond to compliments with a thank-you," Clary's tinkling voice broke him out of his reverie.

To his awed disbelief, his wife was now standing right in front of him, her emerald green eyes watching him with amusement. As if sensing his displeasure with his collar, she fingered the mildly irritated skin on his neck, smirking when he shivered slightly from her touch.

"I hate this collar," he grumbled instead.

Clary looked up at him unimpressed, as if a part of her knew that his complaints were to be expected, but all the same, she had been hopeful that he would suppress them anyway. They had argued, at some great length, about his attire some two weeks ago when the young queen had requested for several new ceremonial outfits to be prepared for her husband. She was not willing to revisit the same argument, not when she knew that a hall full of Idrisians and Alicanteans were anxiously anticipating their arrival.

"You've gone through tougher scrapes before," she reminded him firmly, "You'll live."

"I know," he allowed, dropping the protest. "And I meant to say," he raised his wife's hand to his mouth and tenderly kissed it, "You, my queen, look beautiful."

"Oh?" Clary challenged him.

Jace smiled mischievously. "Hmm, mesmerizing. Enthralling. Breathtaking," his voice lowered to a sultry, velvety note, "The most _beautiful_ woman I've ever seen."

Then remembering the reason for their dressing up more elaborately than usual, Jace sobered. "Remind me again, why do have to go through a public crowning ceremony?" After all, Jace thought, he already had a coronation ceremony—three months ago.

Back then, it had been carried out privately, in honor and respect of Jonathan's passing only two days' prior. With Patrick Penhallow acting as his appointed Advisor, Jace had gathered with the officials from both Idris and Alicante to discuss the affairs of the kingdoms and adjudicate on the dispute of _who shall be king?_ And, _where does this leave Idris and Alicante?_

The situation they had been left to contend with was unique and daunting; never before had two kings of two respective kingdoms expired so quickly, and left no heir behind. A review of the Royal Accords pointed to Jace, King Sebastian's successor by right of kill and King Jonathan's successor by right of his marriage into the latter's family, as the only choice of monarch. But naturally, there had been some very valid concerns. Jace's life as a slave and gladiator was not anything anyone, Jace most of all, was willing to ignore. How would his past interfere with his leadership abilities as king? Was he mentally ready for the challenge?

Ironically, in his efforts to downplay his suitability for the role by confessing his own shortcomings, Jace managed to convince the council otherwise: that he _was_ worthy, after all. _"A true king should not only be morally upright and have compassion for the people,"_ one of the older council members from Alicante, Victor Whitelaw, had said, _"but also one willing to admit his own faults and weaknesses. The one most fit to rule is the one who least desires power."_ Coming from a man who was known by others as austere, it was as high of a compliment as Jace could ever hope to receive without having actually proven himself yet. So he graciously accepted it, and spoke no more in protest when he was asked to recite the royal oath and was officially declared the new king of Idris and Alicante.

"Jace, are you listening to me?" His wife's voice pulled him back to consciousness.

"Hm?" He stared at her, trying to recall what she had spoken to him— _if_ she even had. "Sorry, my love," he conceded, "I'm afraid I was being inattentive. What were you saying?"

Clary looked partly amused. "I was answering your question about the necessity of this public crowning ceremony. Though you have not said the words aloud, I'm certain you think it to be no more than a trivial farce." Jace tried to object, if only because the words did sound harsh once they were thrown back into his face, but didn't, because it would make him dishonest.

"I have nothing against seeing our people," he started, choosing his words carefully, "I just don't see the need for a large ceremony to do it. It feels selfish to be using these much resources for something that holds a little more purpose than a public display of my kingship." Holding in his sigh, he continued reluctantly, "The last thing I want is to be like Valentine or Sebastian."

Clary's amusement faded as comprehension finally sank in. "Oh Jace, you have no reason to fear that. You're a good person—better than those two could ever be. I have no doubt that because of that same goodness, you'll make an even better king that they were. You've already taken the first step by getting rid of them. If nothing else, the people have you to thank for that."

"Your faith in me is humbling," he admitted.

"And we both know how important humility is—and faith, for that matter," Clary said with a comforting smile. "No matter what happens, I will always be that person standing by your side. And fret not, my love, I am prepared to knock you down a few notches every now and then, if not to keep you in line, then to make sure I at least have some leverage against your height. It can be frustrating, you know, being married to a man as tall as you are," she teased.

"I would apologize," Jace said, the beginnings of a smirk lightening up his dour mood. "But I _know_ that you don't mean that. After all, we both know that you, Clarissa Herondale, have more power over me than any man two or three times your own size."

"Hm, yet you're constantly belittling my height."

"You lie! I have never," Jace exclaimed dramatically.

"I have heard the whispers, my dear husband, when you think me dead asleep in the middle of the night. You're always murmuring to our child, '…grow healthy and tall, mostly _tall_. I love your mother as she is, but her lack of height can be a great inconvenience at times.' You dare refute your participation in such comments?"

"I plead guilty. Please, dear wife, have mercy on the father of your child."

"I shall consider it."

Jace bent down and tried capturing his wife's lips with his—only for her to turn her head at the last minute, causing his lips to graze against her cheek instead.

"What was that for?" He grumbled, displeased by her reaction.

"It may not occur to you, my husband, but I am wearing lipstick."

"So?"

"So," Clary repeated patiently, "Unless you want your face smeared with red paint, I suggest you restrain yourself from any attempts to kiss me."

"I knew there was a deeper reason for my hating these ceremonies. It's that detestable makeup Isabelle insists on putting on you."

"There, there," Clary sympathized by patting him lightly on the cheek.

Jace rolled his eyes at her, then proceeded to kneel down before his wife.

"What—"

As his hands came up to cup her round stomach, Clary's questions were silenced.

"Hello there, little one," he spoke to their unborn child, his tone lighter, the bright gold of his eyes softer. "Your mother says that I can't kiss her because she's wearing lipstick. But _you_ 're not wearing any lipstick, so she can't keep me from kissing you, can she?" His eyes flickered up to meet Clary's as he planted a kiss on her clothed belly. Clary rolled her eyes at his antics, but didn't interrupt, save to thread her fingers through his soft golden curls. "I hope you're a boy, so your aunt Isabelle can't turn you into one of her prized dolls."

"And _if_ our child turns out to be a girl?" Clary asked him softly.

"I will be just as happy." Jace grinned. "But I do want our first child to be a boy, not because I want an heir, but so that I can train him to protect his mother and any future sisters he might have," he said cheekily. "Besides, speaking from experience, a bond between a mother and her son is a beautiful thing."

"Oh? So you didn't conspire with your father to make your mother's life a challenge?" Clary asked him knowingly.

"Every day," Jace replied, with a mischievous glint. "My father never discouraged my proclivity for mischief. On the contrary, he enjoyed coming up with ideas for us to play pranks on my mother. It certainly made life in the palace interesting. But…my mother was my entire world. I loved her the most," he confessed.

"That's sweet, Jace."

"I miss her," he said, his voice almost a whisper. He didn't say what he had been thinking, but he knew Clary understood it all the same: he wished that circumstances had permitted his mother's life to be spared, that she had lived so she could meet her grandchild.

"Don't dwell on it, sweetheart," Clary said as she gently touched his cheek. As in agreement, their child gave him a soft but firm kick that startled the both of them. Of late, Clary had been feeling the child inside of her move, but Jace, as often as he loved touching her swollen belly, had not been able to feel anything yet. She knew that he felt _that,_ though.

"Did he—was that—" Jace trailed off, unable to properly form the words for it.

"He kicked," Clary confirmed with a soft laugh.

Jace smiled and leaned forward to press another kiss to his wife's stomach, and a longer one at that. "I love you, my prince," he murmured.

" _Or_ princess," Clary reminded him.

"Perhaps," Jace begrudgingly relented, "But that, to me, felt like a boy's kick."

"Care to share how you came to such an ingenious conclusion?"

"Call it a father's intuition."

Clary scoffed at his reply. "You're grasping at straws, Jace. _How_ would _you_ know how a boy's kicks feel like, considering that prior to this, you've never even felt a baby kick before? Unless," she narrowed her eyes at him accusingly, "you've been going around touching other pregnant women's stomachs and feeling their babies kick?"

"Clarissa Herondale!" Jace exclaimed as he stood upright, a surge of confidence instantly filling him as he towered over his wife. "I would never, ever, _ever_ , whether with curious intentions or not, go around touching other women's stomachs! Never!"

"You had better not!" Clary said as she speared him with a deadly glare.

Jace was appalled at the sudden turn in their playful banter, and wondered, how in God's name had his wife conjured up such a notion. Was it common for pregnant women to have delusions? Either he had said the last part out loud, or his wife was better at reading his facial expressions than he gave her credit for, as her glare sharpened tenfold.

Despite himself, Jace subconsciously shrank away from his wife. Truthfully, few could scare him as much as she did. Although he knew that Clary loved him and would never intentionally hurt him, he still found her intimidating at times, especially when she was mad at him. It reminded him of another…specifically, his own _mother_. It was a disturbing revelation. Although Clary and Celine looked nothing alike, they both radiated the same terrifying aura when provoked. Her being pregnant only seemed to add to her frightening demeanor.

"Don't look at me like that! I said nothing!" Jace protested when a loud knocking on the door interrupted them. Clary looked irritated, and Jace was oddly relieved.

 _"Clary? Jace! If you don't open this door in the next thirty seconds, I'm calling the royal guards to break it down!"_ Isabelle's voice resounded from the other side of the door.

Jace dashed across the room willingly and hastily pulled the door open to reveal a stunning but flustered-looking Isabelle.

"Thank God," he breathed, eliciting a puzzled look from both Isabelle and his wife.

Several seconds of silence passed between them, then the raven-haired beauty had the audacity to snort. "Grateful for my presence? You don't fool me for a second, Jace. What did you do to make your wife angry this time?" She asked with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Jace narrowed his eyes, ready to shoot a terse reply when Clary spoke up from behind him.

"He's been going around touching other pregnant women's stomachs," his wife said.

Jace groaned. "For the love of—"

"What?" Isabelle interrupted as she gave him a mildly perturbed look. "I know you have a tendency to do strange things, Jace, but this is just—it's—"

"—not true!" Jace defended himself in a vehement tone. "We were discussing about the baby's gender, then the baby kicked, and I teased her by saying that it felt like a boy's kick, then _she_ —" He waved his hand in the general direction of his wife, "made up her own ideas about how I came to know such a thing. But I didn't—I _don't_ , I swear. I was just teasing!" _Why_ , Jace wondered, he was even putting in this much effort trying to justify himself to Isabelle was beyond his ability to comprehend. He didn't owe his nosy little sister any explanation for his wife's baseless accusation. But for some reason, the possibility of Isabelle believing Clary's tale made him feel embarrassed. And speaking of his wife—

"Who would have thought that the great Jace Herondale could get his feathers ruffled so easily?" Clary remarked, sounding the complete opposite of the angry wife she was pretending to be moments ago.

Jace stared at her in disbelief as realization sank in. _She_ was teasing _him_.

"I must admit," she said with an uncharacteristically conniving smirk, "It is empowering to know that I have _some_ hold over you."

Isabelle snorted. "You always have, dear Clary. You always have."

Clary gave him a blinding smile while Isabelle tried, without much success, to hide her amusement. Then, arm in arm, the two ladies calmly exited the chambers.

Jace stared after them, mouth agape, before coming to his senses and following them, his head shaking with incredulity. There was much he still needed to learn, apparently, if he was to ever understand the complexities of the female mind. For that reason alone, he fervently prayed that his child would turn out to be a son, because the day he'd be gifted with a daughter would be the day Jace Herondale succumbed to complete and utter defeat. The women he held most dear to his heart, after all, had always wielded the power to have him wrapped around their fingers.

* * *

"May I present their royal Majesties, the rulers of the united kingdoms of Idris and Alicante—King Jace, and his wife, Queen Clarissa!"

The people cheered loudly as Jace and Clary stepped into the grand ballroom of the Idrisian palace, large smiles gracing their faces as they stood in attendance to welcome their newest king and queen.

Jace felt Clary's hand around his arm tighten slightly in nervousness, but true to her royal training, she looked the perfect picture of a graceful queen as she smiled and waved at their loyal subjects. As their eyes briefly met, Clary subtly tilted her head, as if to say, "Go on…be sociable." Jace swallowed back his own anxiety and did as his wife commanded.

They made it through the crowd at a purposely leisurely pace, acknowledging the people personally as a show of their goodwill. Unlike previous royal occasions, the crowd consisted of not merely just the affluent nobles in Idris and Alicante, but even those from the lower classes whom haughty kings like Valentine would have easily labeled as 'peasants' and 'commoners'.

That was all going to change today, Clary thought as she subconsciously leaned into her husband. Gone were the days where the poor were exploited and oppressed simply because there were people who saw the need to distinguish themselves from others based on their fortunes. Jace was a different king, an entirely different kind of man. Despite his personal misgivings, Clary knew her husband well; as scarred as he was by his past, Jace had a good and noble heart, one that made him worthy of the crown.

When the couple finally reached the dais where their thrones were situated, Patrick Penhallow—former Consul turned Royal Advisor—greeted them both with a warm smile.

"Your Majesties," he addressed them both formally in spite of Jace's frequent insistence to call him by his first name. As expected, her husband winced at her side. "We've been anxiously anticipating your arrival for some time now," he said good-naturedly.

"Our apologies, Patrick," Jace replied after shooting his trusted advisor a subtle look of chastisement. "I wasn't feeling so certain about my get-up today."

Patrick chuckled as he gave him a quick once-over. "No apologies necessary, Your Majesty. And you look very fine indeed. As do you, my fair and radiant Queen." The older man said as he bowed his head in Clary's direction.

"Thank you, Patrick," his wife replied with a smile.

"If you don't mind, Your Majesties, we should probably not delay the ceremony any further," he said, signaling to the group of trumpeters who were positioned on either sides of the dais.

In response, Clary and Jace situated themselves on their respective thrones as the royal fanfare sounded to signify the commencement of the official ceremony.

On cue, the religious leader of Idris, Brother Jeremiah, stepped forward, both hands clasped in front of him as he walked towards the king and queen. He was accompanied by two other men dressed in similar gray robes, each of whom carried a golden crown in their hands. Jace smiled as Brother Zachariah, the man who had officiated his wedding with Clary, stepped up to his right whereas the other man, Brother Enoch, stood by Clary's left.

"People of the United Kingdom of Idris and Alicante," Brother Jeremiah began in a gravelly voice. "On this day, we witness the public crowning of our King and Queen, Jace Herondale and his wife, Clarissa Adele Herondale." At his words, both Brothers Zachariah and Enoch gently placed the crowns on their heads. Jace let out a breath when he felt the unfamiliar weight, but otherwise kept his golden eyes steeled forward.

"May God guide them in their duties as the rulers of our newly united kingdoms, so that they may be just and compassionate in their services to the people," Brother Jeremiah said.

"God bless the King and Queen."

"God bless the King and Queen!" The people chanted in unison before exploding in a rousing applause, loud cheers and whistles resonating across the ballroom.

Jace smiled his gratitude at their support before taking Clary's hand in his and slowly rising from his throne. As he did, he could feel his heart racing, his pulse erratic and quick. He had rehearsed his speech a few times before, but faced with the reality of this crowd, he felt far from ready. Perhaps, he could persuade Patrick to let him forgo the speech…

"Breathe, Jace. You can do it," He heard Clary whisper encouragingly to him, and he took in several deep breaths before looking back at the expectant crowd.

Several moments passed in silence before Jace finally mustered his ability to speak.

"I'd like to begin by thanking everyone here for your presence, and for warmly welcoming me as your new king," he said, his tone fortunately masking the nervousness he was feeling. "I will admit, I may not have had an adequate training as most kings before me. My father, Stephen Herondale as some of you may know, had in fact trained me in my younger years, but due to certain circumstances, I've never actually managed to complete my training as his successor."

Jace paused, eyes slightly glazed over as he recalled the years that had led up to this moment, the years that had ultimately defined him and shaped him into the man that he was today. It was never easy for him to think about his past, but standing in front of the people whose lives he had been entrusted with, Jace knew that he had to surrender to it and embrace it completely. The people didn't need another dictator who only spoke deceptively beautiful promises; they needed an honest king who spoke from his heart and who knew empathy and hardship.

"In the short twenty years of my life, I've seen and lived through things that most would be fortunate to only hear about in passing," he said. "At the age of ten, I lost both my mother and father, and then, shortly after, I was forced into a life of slavery where I was trained, essentially, to be a gladiator." Jace paused, seeing the awed looks on several of the people's faces at the mention of his gladiator past, and instantly, he felt his throat tighten. How could some of them still hold the games in high regard even after witnessing firsthand how damaging and cruel it could be? Granted, it was possible that not all of them had been present at the last games, but it was no secret how the vile sport had robbed the life of the late king Jonathan Morgenstern.

"I can see that some of you may think of it as an honor to serve in the arena as a gladiator. But I'm here to tell you that it's _not_ ," he said sternly. "There is no glory in taking another's life for the sake of a sport. A gladiator's life is anything but a luxury; I scraped through life, merely to survive, never really knowing which day would be my last. I'd had to endure many painful obstacles, and experience firsthand rulers who can be cruel—some more than others." He cringed, remembering his torture at Valentine and Sebastian's hands.

"If there's one thing that I learnt from my time as a gladiator, it's that no one deserves to be mistreated or to be deprived of their right to live amongst others as equals. Slave or not, there is little to no value in treating a person as any lesser just because of his social status, and therefore, as your king, that is one of the few things that I wish to change here in both Idris and Alicante."

At this, the people, who had thus far been hanging on to Jace's every word, cheered loudly.

Jace glanced over at Clary, only to find her already looking at him with pride shining in her emerald green eyes. "I may not know much about being a king," he said, "but I promise, that for as long as you'll have me on this throne, I will serve each and every one of you to the best of my ability. And God willing, with your support, and with the guidance of my council and my wife, we'll be able to achieve so much more than what our predecessors have given us."

And with that, Jace turned to Clary, brushing his lips over the knuckles of her hand tenderly. "To one united Idris and Alicante!" He declared, raising his fist in the air.

"To one united Idris and Alicante!" The people chanted in similar fashion before the ballroom was drowned in an even louder burst of cheers.

* * *

"Oh God," Jace rasped as he sat back down on his throne. "I—I think I'm going to have a heart attack. Clary—Help. I think I might need you to give me a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

Clary rolled at her eyes at her husband. "Don't be so dramatic, Jace. You did fine," she said. "Besides…don't you think your entire effort would just go to waste if you were to suddenly collapse in front of everyone?"

"I feel faint," he continued as if his wife hadn't spoken a thing.

"Suit yourself."

"But—"

"Your Majesties," Patrick interrupted the couple, "If you don't mind, we would like for you to lead in the first dance. It is custom, after all, for the new rulers to lead their people in a dance."

Jace straightened himself up before clearing his throat. "Yes, of course, Patrick," he answered smoothly, reaffirming Clary of his theatrics earlier.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, offering his arm to his wife.

Rolling her eyes, Clary took it before following Jace towards the center of the ballroom, where the people had cleared the space for the couple. She let out a shaky breath as Jace guided her to face him, one of his hands placed on her waist and the other clasped in her own. Slowly, she placed her other hand on his shoulder before casting an uneasy look in his direction.

"I'm terrible at dancing," she admitted in a hushed tone.

"It's okay," Jace said, rubbing circles onto her hand with his thumb.

Clary looked up at him, hopeful for some reassurance and perhaps a bit of motivation, but instead, Jace only flashed her an arrogant smirk. "I'm not."

Before Clary even had the chance to chastise him for his haughtiness, Jace began to move, leading her in a slow, but dauntingly-paced enough dance. Clary gasped and looked down at her feet, trying with all her might to not trample over Jace's boots. This, of course, proved to be an impossible task with her skirt being in the way, never mind her growing belly.

"Clary," Jace said, causing her emerald green orbs to jerk back to his golden ones. "Keep your beautiful green eyes on mine. Don't think. Just move with me," he told her.

Finally, Clary calmed down enough to obey him, her green eyes never once straying from his. And to her surprise, she found that his method was working. She was dancing, _really dancing_ , without tripping over anyone's feet!

 _Jon will be so proud when he finds out,_ Clary thought as she recalled how her brother used to play the role of her faithful dance partner in her early years, even despite their glaring height differences. Of course, their mother had tried to talk Clary into dancing with another more suited to her height, but the young princess would have none of it. It was her brother, or no one else, she had insisted. In good spirit, Jon had groaned and complained, but Clary knew her soft-hearted brother had enjoyed every minute of it, even if she had the habit of stomping on his feet and bruising them every few minutes.

"Why are you smiling?" Jace interrupted her thoughts with an amused smile of his own. "My, my, my beloved queen. A minute of dancing in my arms and you're already thinking naughty thoughts, aren't you?" He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, causing Clary to blush and bristle in obvious disapproval.

Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she was relieved to find that no one had been within hearing distance of her husband's inappropriate comment. Still—"Don't be so crass, Jace!"—she chided him.

"Apologies, my love." He smirked. "But please, do indulge my curiosity and tell me what's on your mind."

At the sight of his puppy-eyed look, Clary rolled her eyes, though she couldn't contain the smile from ghosting her lips. "I was remembering the one time I stomped on Jon's foot really hard during dance class that he ended up with a bad fracture— _not_ that it was entirely my fault. He knew what an incompetent dancer I was, yet he foolishly chose to dance barefoot even though I was wearing a pair of heels," she laughed, seemingly oblivious of _who_ she was talking about.

Jace, on the other hand, was stunned into silence. While Clary's demeanor had improved much since they discovered that they were soon to be parents, his wife had also not spoken a word of her late brother. Neither had Jace, for fear that Jonathan's death remained a fresh, still bleeding wound on her mind.

Finally, as if only realizing what she had said, a sorrowful look overtook Clary's face and she shut her eyes as if in pain. "I forget sometimes…I forget that he's gone," she said in a strained voice. "Is it bad that I forget, Jace?"

His stomach churned with worry, but his voice was steady as he soothed his wife. "No, sweetheart, of course not," Jace said. "I don't blame you. It's just…easier to forget sometimes. It helps to take away the pain, even if only a little."

"I hate myself for doing it though," Clary said. "I feel so selfish."

"Don't," Jace gently scolded her. "Don't punish yourself just because you need more time to come to terms with the past. It took me years to accept my parents' deaths. It is unreasonable to expect you to get over Jon's so quickly."

Clary bit her lip as she processed her husband's words. Jace was right, she knew that. Of course, that didn't necessarily take away her guilt for (subconsciously) refusing to accept that her brother was gone, but he was right in his assertions that acceptance sometimes required time.

"For what it's worth, I'm sure he would have been proud to see you dancing so well today."

Clary finally cracked a smile. "Jace?" She asked after a while.

"Yes?" He eyed her, a little warily.

"This is our _first_ dance," she told him with a wide grin, the past conversation forgotten.

Jace favored her with a large smile of his own. "I know, sweetheart. I know," he said before proceeding to spin her in an elegant twirl.

Clary giggled at the unexpectedness of the movement, and true to her lack of physical grace, she stumbled, only to be supported by his strong arms. She looked up into her husband's mesmerizing golden eyes before melding her lips against his—a soft, gentle kiss that lasted only a couple of seconds, just enough to convey the sentiment of "thank you".

Then, Jace brushed his lips against her temple, a soft smile on his face as he murmured, "The first of many more to come."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Hope you guys liked that one. Let me know your thoughts in a review.**_

 _ **I can't promise when I'll update next, but we'll see ;)**_

 _ **Until next time...**_

 _ **peace xoxo**_


	29. Outtake 3

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **HELLO LOVELIES!**_

 _ **Sorry for the long absence. I'm back, and this outtake is particularly long. Starts off a little heavy but you'll eventually get to the lighter bits. Took me weeks (definitely more than a month) to edit this piece. Hope you'll enjoy it!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me,**_ _ **xxmadworldredemptionxx**_ _ **. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.**_

* * *

 **OUTTAKE 3: BROTHERS/CLARY'S CRAVINGS/SICK JACE**

 **(PRE-EPILOGUE)**

"Tell me again why I agreed to this," Alec groaned for possibly the twentieth time in the last two minutes. "This is, by far, your worst idea of a brotherly-bonding time, Jace!"

Jace closed his eyes and counted to ten, then expelled a long, deep breath in an effort to calm his nerves. Their—or rather, _his_ —mission was already complicated enough without a sudden paroxysm of rage adding strain to the fragility of their situation. No matter how many times his parabatai complained or made petty-sounding remarks—or how much he felt like dropping to the ground himself and taking at least an eight-hour long nap—he was resolved to stay optimistic and focused on the task at hand.

"We've been out riding since dawn," Alec continued, nonplussed by his partner's abrupt vow of silence. "We have visited God knows how many markets in Idris _and_ Alicante for the past _nine hours_. Face it, Jace. We're never going to find a single mango for your pregnant wife. You might as well give it up already."

Jace's head spun to face him faster than Alec could say "I take it back".

"No," he said in a low and controlled voice. "I refuse to give up. Did you even hear yourself? My pregnant wife. Pregnant," he repeated. "As in carrying _my child_ — _your_ future _nephew_ , or _niece_. You could at least be a bit more committed to this mission, Uncle Alec."

At the appellation, Alec seemed to deflate somewhat and look a little apologetic. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I don't mean to be so…cynical. I'm just tired and frustrated, is all."

"I understand, Alec," Jace smiled at his brother. "I am, too. I just don't want to come home empty-handed. Clary rarely asks me for anything. I just want to do this one thing for her." He sighed before passing a tired hand over his face. "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry for tricking you and dragging you into this mess."

Alec looked affronted by the statement. "You didn't 'trick' me. It's insulting that you think so," he said with an air of mock hurt. "You asked me nicely, and I said 'yes'. Besides, being back in the barracks has been a little more than stifling. The environment's certainly improved, and so has the company, but…I needed the fresh air."

Jace glanced over at his brother, a question poised on his lips but uncertain of whether he should even ask it. He didn't want to make it seem as if he were prying into Alec's personal affairs. Contrary to what their sister Isabelle was inclined to say on the matter, Jace believed that everyone was entitled to their right to privacy. Being family—or _almost_ -family if they were being technical about it—did not take away that right, nor did it make it an obligation for them to share every single detail of their lives with each other.

"What is it?" Alec asked before Jace could feign an air of nonchalance.

"Nothing," he quickly replied. At Alec's disbelieving look, he added, "Just thinking about…things. Nothing of great consequence, I assure you."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Hm."

Silence penetrated the air, as deadly and awkward as Jace had ever encountered it. Finally—

"What does Magnus have to say about your living arrangements at the barracks?" He blurted out, only to mentally curse himself a moment later.

To his unexpected relief, Alec let loose a chuckle. "So my suspicions _were_ right. It had something to do with Magnus."

Jace schooled his face into a stoic expression and kept quiet.

"To see you so silent is such a rare gift," Alec said amusedly.

Jace feigned a smirk. "I call it deference. A gift I so rarely bestow upon others. You should consider yourself lucky."

"You don't have to feel bad about asking, Jace," Alec assured him, though his expression was slightly guarded. "Eventually, I was going to talk to you about it—the nature of my relationship with Magnus, I mean," he clarified.

"You don't have to explain it to me," Jace suddenly looked uncomfortable. "It's enough that I have to listen to Isabelle talk about her and Simon since the two of them got married…for Heaven's sake, the unsolicited details!" He shuddered to himself. "For the record, _she's_ the reason I even asked that question in the first place. That nosy woman's voice in my head won't shut up. But damn if I give her what she wants!" Jace ranted, clearly agitated. "Let's just…keep our love lives to ourselves, shall we?"

A beat passed, then another.

"It isn't like that—with me and Magnus," Alec confessed, his tone earnest, his expression even more so. "I care deeply for him, and he cares for me, too. But we're not…we're not headed in the direction that you think we are. Magnus is my calm in the storm, my confidant, my…most cherished companion. That's all there is to it."

Jace frowned at his parabatai, confused by the sudden divulgement of information that contradicted the impression he'd had concerning Alec's relationship with Magnus. After all, he had been certain that he'd witnessed something akin to a lover's embrace between the two several months ago in the cells. When he'd initially confronted Alec about it, the man had reacted in a way that implied something greater than just 'friendship' going on—not that it would have changed Jace's relationship with Alec if the latter proved to be true.

For better or for worse, Alec was his beloved friend…nothing could ever change that, even if their paths in life were to deviate. To expect everyone to conform to the same beliefs and expectations, to desire the same things in life…it was idealistic, but not exactly realistic. Even cut from the same cloth, there were bound to be dissimilarities and imperfections. Did that make certain people less deserving of the very basic principles of humanity? Jace thought not.

And after everything he had personally seen and gone through during his time as a slave, had more than adequately _felt_ the sting of oppression and discrimination, he maintained that his duty—or more to the point, his moral code—as a fellow being wasn't to judge or to condemn the people who were different from him, but to treat them with compassion, dignity and respect, or at the very least, to grant them the mercy of tolerance. Let the ultimate judgment of a person's character and deeds remain in God's hands… Jace had neither the ambition nor capacity to play jury, judge and executioner over what others chose to do in their seclusion and privacy. Although, he'd made exceptions to that rule where Valentine Morgenstern, Sebastian Verlac and their like-minded cult of nefarious, damage-inflicting evil-doers were concerned.

"In hindsight, I realize that I haven't given you any reason to think otherwise. I mean, you've seen Magnus kiss me in the cells all those months ago…" Alec trailed off. "I don't deny that it happened, but it doesn't mean that we're in a romantic relationship like you and Clary, or Isabelle and Simon, are. It only happened once, and only because I was…struggling viciously with my demons that night and Magnus had no idea of what else to do to snap me out of it—"

"Alec," Jace cut him off gently. "I've told you how I felt about this months ago, and it still stands. Whatever you decide to do with your life, or who you want to be with, that's your prerogative. You are not obligated to justify any of it to me. I respect you, I care for you regardless. Besides, I like Magnus," he said in a lighter tone. "His obsession with glitter is a bit worrying, but I can't deny that he is a good man. A good friend."

"Indeed, he is," his parabatai remarked softly.

It was silent for a good while. And then, just when Jace was convinced that the conversation was over, Alec turned to him and asked, his voice strained with an echo of pain, "Did you ever hear about how I met Magnus?"

Jace stole a glance at Alec and froze, stunned and worried when he discovered how pale his friend suddenly looked. He didn't know how to react, but somehow feeling the significance of Alec's would-be revelation, he didn't hold him back from speaking his mind.

"It was three years before you showed up. Like you, I was a quick study in the arena. The crowd—hell, even the games warden— _loved_ me. I was so…close to being the best. And the older gladiators felt threatened by that. They wanted to get rid of me."

Even though Jace was no ignoramus when it came to rivalries among other gladiators, he could still feel his heart contracting painfully at Alec's disclosure. He knew that what was soon to come to his knowledge would be far worse than anything he could have ever expected to hear from his oldest and most beloved friend since childhood; frankly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it. He had heard stories of cruel, unparalleled violence that sometimes happened in the barracks, and to even consider any of it happening to Alec was heartbreaking to him. Alec had survived this far, had carried himself with a strength and dominance that he couldn't help but admire as a fellow comrade; Jace couldn't contemplate the possibility that Alec somehow became a far more tragic victim of circumstance than he already was. Was the pain of losing one's parents as a result of a tyrant's bloodlust and conquest for power not enough? Was the humiliation and hardships borne through slavery not enough?

"Finally, the opportunity to almost definitely assure my downfall came," Alec said in a severe tone. "A noblewoman, for some reason, had wandered into the gladiator barracks, and one of the gladiators…this vile _animal_ …took advantage of the situation. He raped her, then somehow managed to frame _me_ for it." There it was again. The word Jace repulsed more than anything else. _Rape._ Jace knew Alec well enough to know that he would never do such a monstrous thing, but of course, Alec hadn't had him around at the time to vouch for him, to provide him with a means of an alibi…anything. It wasn't Jace's fault—he was a victim of circumstance, too—but he still felt, in a way, guilty for not having been there to defend Alec.

"They were going to execute me, but ah, the warden's favor for me managed to get me off on a 'lighter' sentence. So instead of removing my head, they _…_ " At his wretched admission, Alec let out a mirthless laugh as Jace's eyes widened to the size of saucers. He had suspected that an unfair cruelty had befallen Alec, but the truth of what it actually was was the last thing to even cross his mind. Sparing a man's life, only to punish him with a deplorable, unspeakable act? That wasn't a mercy; it was an act of _dehumanization_. "It hurt like nothing I've ever felt before…but that wasn't even the worst of it. I had never felt more degraded, more humiliated in my entire life. I…I wanted, so much, to just… _die_. And then, Magnus Bane saved me."

Alec shook his head. "When I woke up and saw him, this strange, eccentric-looking man looming over me, who told me that I was going to be okay, I was _pissed_. Why did he have to save me? Why couldn't he have just left me to bleed out and die?" Tears flowed down both men's cheeks, unbidden, each word that tore through Alec's lips felt like a stab to Jace's chest. It was difficult to hear Alec's tale without feeling agony, and worse, pity for him. Alec hadn't deserved to be treated with such savagery and abuse as he had—especially not at the expense of another's heinous actions. "The first thing I did was to scream at Magnus—I threatened to kill him, for saving my life, for no other reason than knowing about my shame. I hated him for it."

Alec paused, and finally, light seemed to reenter his eyes. "But Magnus never showed that he was afraid or disgusted of me. He saw right through me, and told me as if it were a fact, that a man's worth and dignity had little to do with his physical imperfections, and more to do with his thoughts, words and deeds in life… And then, all I could think of after that, was… _wow_ , the nerve of that man. And secondly, could he be right? I mean, here I was wallowing in self-pity and shame, feeling as if I were a lowly, insignificant piece of _dirt_ , and this sparkly doctor was telling me that I was still worth something?" Alec chuckled.

"After he left, I spent the next three months in recovery, still struggling to come to terms with what happened, but at the back of my mind, I always heard Magnus's words. They gave me hope. _He_ gave me hope. And when I was assigned to him for my slave duties, I knew. Somehow, Magnus and I were fated to meet, to share a special bond," Alec breathed, and Jace watched him, in awe with how much his parabatai was opening up to him. This was a rare moment in itself; the Alec that Jace knew was a man of few words, who wasn't the type to share his feelings with others, even though the two were close enough to be regarded as brothers. It hurt Jace, to know how much Alec had gone through, but he was grateful for the trust that his parabatai was showing him through this unexpected heart-to-heart they were having.

"It seems…I have a lot to thank Magnus Bane for." Jace offered his parabatai a soft smile. "He didn't just save _me_ when _I_ was on the verge of death—and twice at that," he said, recalling the two separate occasions where he owed the man. "He also saved my best friend's."

To the young king's relief, Alec returned his smile. "He most certainly did," he agreed. "And I thank God everyday for putting him in my path, even if the circumstances at the time were less than desirable." Alec shook his head. "It truly is a mystery how life works, isn't it? For what many things we lose, we sometimes gain just as much, if not more. I may never have the chance to live a normal life like others, or to have a family like you…but for some reason, I'm okay with that. _Truly._ I don't need anything more than this solid companionship that I already have with Magnus, the brotherhood that I have with you, the love of Isabelle and Max…even the odd friendships that I have with those rowdy bunch of soldiers at the barracks."

Jace nodded, but teasingly added, "Isabelle may be inclined to disagree though. The woman's all passion and romance."

"Passion isn't everything— _compassion_ is," Alec interjected, a tad bit defensive even though he had no reason to be—not with Jace, at least. "Besides, I don't think Izzy is a fair judge on all matters concerning love and relationships, is she?" He asked as he gave Jace a well-meaning look. "As much as she has suffered…being orphaned after our parents' execution, being separated from me…Izzy's led a comparatively sheltered life with Max. One might say that she has a dim view of the world…not like you and me. We've both seen firsthand and lived through the horrifying barbarism of men who claimed themselves to be human but turned out to be demons in disguise. It's changed us in ways Izzy can never be able to fully understand. I love my sister…but that doesn't mean I think she's right, or that I want the same things as she does. Passion, romance…they're all secondary. They don't define a person. They don't define _me_."

Alec paused for a moment as his eyes took on an introspective look. "Growing up in the barracks, I always struggled to find a semblance of stability. It didn't help that I was regularly exposed to violence and death… No matter what I did, I was always angry, all the time," he said. "But after what happened, after I met Magnus and started to open up to him, I finally found peace. The missing part of my life, the thing I've wanted, more than anything, was just _compassion_ and _empathy_. To have someone see me at my lowest and accept me for all that I am…that's the greatest blessing I could have ever hoped for. Jace, I'm content—no, I'm _grateful_ to be where I am today…I'm grateful to just be."

"I know what you mean, Alec," Jace finally said. At this stage of his life, he was grateful to just be, too. To be _alive_. To be _free_. To be a _friend_. To be a _brother_. To be a _husband_. And soon, to be a _father_. "I have to ask though; where does Magnus stand in all of this?"

Jace had no doubt that Alec knew where he was headed in his life, but what about Magnus? Although quite the maverick, Jace couldn't deny that Magnus was a good man with a good heart, and one whom Jace greatly respected and cared for. Why else would the man, a royal physician of his repute, be so willing to help gladiators and slaves when he had no obligation to serve them? Compassion and a sense of duty towards helping humankind was one thing; Jace suspected Magnus helped people as much as he did without seeking anything in return was because he, too, was a kindred soul who had experienced much pain in the former years of his life. It certainly explained his capacity for empathy. So then, the way he presented himself, Jace realized in that same heartbeat, the glitter he doused himself in, the exuberant way that he spoke, was Magnus Bane's version of an armor; a way to distract people so they only saw what was on the surface. It was a smart disguise, unassuming… It reinforced Jace's need to know that Magnus was happy, too.

To his relief, Alec answered, "Magnus and I are on the same page." Then in a softer tone, he explained, "Believe it or not, he isn't just accommodating me. It's certainly a huge change from the relationships he's had in the past—strangely, for one as sociable as he is, Magnus has never quite had the experience with long-term platonic relationships… But he's assured me that it's a good change. Less is more, or so he tells me."

Jace tried, and nearly failed, to repress his chuckle. Though it was possible, the statement of 'less is more' when it came to Magnus Bane seemed awfully ironic, especially if one were to take into account his manner of dressing. But then again, looks were sometimes deceiving. He would simply have to take Alec's word for it.

"With that said, it doesn't mean that we'll hold each other back, or begrudge the other if there came a time either of us want something more and want to explore possibilities with other people," Alec continued without missing a beat. "Regardless of what happens, we will always be there for each other. That's the beauty of a companionship. It's an enduring and selfless partnership built on respect and rapport that goes beyond the surface of physical attraction, that trumps the fleeting tide of passion. It's built to nurture and to survive."

"That's great, Alec," Jace acknowledged.

As if finally rousing from a trance, Alec turned to Jace with a sheepish look. "I'm sorry about that. I—I didn't plan on…talking so much," he stammered apologetically.

"Don't apologize, Alec," Jace said. "I never expected you to open up this much to me either…but I'm _glad_. Being parabatai means more than just fighting by each other's side. It's this—talking, too. I mean, we've already spent eight years of our lives apart from each other… If there's ever a time for us to catch up, it's now."

"Yeah?" Alec grinned at him, then sobered slightly. "Thank you, Jace. For listening. You have no idea how much of a relief it is to finally get those things off my chest…how much of a relief it is that you're still here by my side after hearing about…all of _that_."

"I just found you, Alec. I'm not letting go anytime soon," Jace said softly. "Besides, I'm not all that different either. I have my own demons, and yet, you're still with me, aren't you?"

Alec shrugged. "Who am I to turn my back on my oldest friend?"

"I appreciate your loyalty, Alec. But more than that, I appreciate your trust in me," Jace told him, his expression touched. "It couldn't have been easy to talk about. And I know that you may not want to hear this, but I _am_ sorry that what happened to you… _happened_ to _you_. Of all things…you didn't deserve that cruelty, Alec. No one does."

Alec's face darkened minutely. "I've put it behind me—or I will in time. It isn't easy…a great deal of these wounds that I carry with me are permanent, after all. But as far as letting it have a hold on my mind, or to dictate how I perceive myself… _That's_ something I'm determined to move on and heal from." Finally, he allowed himself a smile. "One step at a time."

"And now you have one more shoulder to cry on," Jace quipped with a smirk. "Not implying that you should cry or anything. But if you _do_ , I'm certainly not judging."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Jace," Alec chuckled with mirth. "And to answer your initial question… Magnus is nothing but supportive of my decision to move back into the barracks. Bunking in his spare bedroom while the arena was being repurposed was always a temporary arrangement. He knows how much being a soldier means to me. It's a childhood dream."

"I remember," Jace grinned as he thought back to their staged fights during their early years of growing up. For some reason, the idea of being a soldier had always appealed to them, Alec even more so. The promise of adventure, glory and honor…why wouldn't two impressionable young boys want that? "I would have thought that serving time as a gladiator would've put you off that dream though."

"It's significantly toned down the glorified image of violence and bloodshed, I'll admit," Alec said grimly, "But it has bolstered my motivation to stand behind a righteous cause. I never want to see innocent men, much less _children_ become slaves of entertainment for others. I want our kingdom to thrive and to be safe from threats like Valentine."

"Amen to that."

"All right, I think I've done more than my fair share of talking," Alec said, attempting to steer the conversation to a lighter topic. "Let's talk about you and Clary."

Jace ducked his head in an attempt to hide his blush. "Sure," he muttered half-heartedly.

"You've been married less than a year and already expecting a child together… How does it feel, knowing that you're going to be a father?" Alec asked, a look of genuine curiosity on his face.

Jace turned to look at his friend, the ghost of a smile on his lips even as he hesitated. Having spent the first few months of their marriage in secrecy, he found it odd at times to speak about his wife, even if Alec had been privy to their union from the beginning. If Jace was being completely honest with himself, he was actually _shy_ to discuss it, even if he was also proud to be a married man and an expecting father.

"It's hard to say. It can be rather…confusing at times," he finally admitted.

"Confusing how?" Alec raised an eyebrow at him.

Jace smiled. "I'm happy, mostly," he said. "In fact, I'm the happiest I've ever been. I never thought I'd ever be blessed with a life more perfect than this. To find love at a time when everything should have seemed hopeless, with a wonderful woman whom I respect and adore…and then this knowledge that I'm going to be a father…I've never felt more grateful…"

"But?" Alec interrupted, looking at Jace more intently.

The young king suddenly stiffened as he was reminded of the other reason he was reluctant to speak of his impending fatherhood. "I'm _terrified_ ," he whispered. "I'm so terrified that something might go wrong during the childbirth… I'm terrified that I might not just lose the baby, but Clary too." His voice wavered and his golden eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.

"Why would you even think of that, Jace?" Alec frowned, having not expected this dark turn in the conversation when he first brought up Jace's marriage _._

"I know I shouldn't…" Jace trailed off, emotion thick in his voice. He tried to clear his throat once, twice, to dispel the lump forming there, then tried speaking again. "I know I shouldn't let hypotheticals weigh me down. It's _wrong_ , that despite being grateful for all these blessings, I have these fears—these paralyzing _doubts_ in my head—as if God is just biding His time before He pulls the rug out from underneath me again. I want to trust that all this…is _real_ , and it's here to stay for good this time. But then I remember; everything we own in this life, even the people we love, are impermanent. Nothing—no one—lasts forever," he said hoarsely. "My childhood was already an example of that. I'd thought that I would have years with my parents…but you know how that one turned out, don't you? Maybe…maybe it's a sign that I'm not fated for happiness—"

"Jace, you can't possibly believe that—"

"I don't want to, but a part of me does," Jace whispered. "I'm scared, Alec. I've never been more afraid than I am now. At least back when I was still a gladiator, I had nothing to lose…it was just me. But now that I have Clary and a baby on the way…the thought of losing either one of them is like a _knife to the heart_. I want to be able to protect my family, always, but history has taught me that there are circumstances that I can't control. I can't control if something goes wrong and they _die_ —" He choked on the word and Alec decided that he'd heard enough.

"Stop right there, Jace," Alec cut him off sternly. "Look, I know you're afraid… Being a father is uncharted territory, so you have every reason to be—but _not_ to the point of letting fear to have reign over your thoughts. I know you're stronger and braver than that."

"Maybe I'm not."

"You are," Alec told him fiercely. "I _believe_ that. You've held your own for eight years, put up with the trials of being a gladiator despite having lost both your parents, your home and your freedom… You've never given up," he said. "Maybe it's partly because you've always been so _damned_ stubborn," he tried joking, "but it's stupid to not recognize it for what it also means. _Bravery._ Don't falter now. And trust that whatever happens, happens for a reason, not because God just decides that it's your destiny to live a miserable life. That line of thinking is ironically self-absorbed for all your self-deprecating ways. It needs to stop."

Alec's words sent a sharp flinch rocking through Jace's body, almost like a bitter slap to the face. But despite how much it stung, Jace knew that he'd needed someone to say those exact words to him, to restore the 'sense' that had slowly been slipping away from him.

"I won't promise you that everything's going to be okay," Alec continued in a softer tone. "But you've made it this far, Jace. You've fought for your happiness, for Clary. That has to count for something at least. So don't be quick to give in to fear just because your future is uncertain—that's the way the future is always meant to be. Three years ago, I never expected the horrible things that has happened to actually _happen_ to me, but they did. I've suffered, but I also came out of it stronger…better. It's helped me to believe that no matter how terrible the trial, there is always a silver lining at the very end. If it's any consolation, Jace…you're not alone this time. You have me, Magnus, Izzy, Max, even Simon. Whatever happens, you'll have us."

Jace gave him a rueful smile. "I appreciate that, Alec," he relented. Then in a more casual tone he asked, "Magnus has been teaching you conversational skills, hasn't he?"

Catching on to Jace's need to change the subject, Alec playfully rolled his eyes. "Why do you assume that he's teaching me anything?"

"You used to be terrible at talking, or giving reassurances, for that matter. In fact, I seem to recall you being quite the pessimist, especially when it came to my relationship with Clary."

"Things change. I have evolved," Alec said.

"You certainly have."

Alec rolled his eyes then finally said, "Okay, fine. I'll admit that Magnus has rubbed off on me. The way he talks about Clary…he's really fond of her, you know? He calls her 'Biscuit'…"

"I'm aware."

"…makes me feel guilty about how hard I used to be on you for liking her. In my defense, I was only trying to protect you. I was convinced that your reckless pursuit of a relationship with her would lead you to the gallows, or worse." He shuddered in earnest. "But I digress. Clary must be a keeper to be able to put up with your recklessness and bad temper. Oh, and the brooding, too. I've not exchanged more than a few words with Clary, but by God, that woman must be a saint!"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or if I want to punch you right now," Jace groused. "I'm leaning towards the latter. I think it was less complicated when you didn't talk _this much_. God must be testing me again…as if this tedious hunt for mangoes isn't challenging enough."

At the reminder of their task, Alec groaned loudly. "Of all the fruits in the world, your wife just had to crave for mangoes! What's wrong with apples, or pears, or watermelon?"

"For one, they don't have yellow flesh," Jace said dryly. "I'm sure you're smart enough to know the rest of the differences. Or must I provide you with a biology lesson on fruits?"

Alec cringed. "I'll pass."

Just then, a market came into view.

"Well, will you look at that, Jace?" Alec said, nudging his horse forward into a somewhat livelier pace. "Maybe the silver lining is just around the corner, after all. Quick! Now would be a good time to pray and hope that there is at least _one_ mango lying around for your wife."

"I second that," Jace said, overtaking Alec at an even more enthusiastic gallop.

As they finally reached a corral, he expertly dismounted the horse and handed over the reins to Alec. His brother gave him a look of amusement.

"Never have I seen someone so excited about buying mangoes," Alec remarked.

"As glad as I am that you've developed a sense of humor, I must depart. Stay with the horses," he instructed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? Would be much faster if we split up. Divide and conquer, as they say…"

Jace waved him off, placing a hand over his heart at an attempt of a solemnness. "In life, there are certain missions that one must journey alone. Alas, brother mine, this is my burden to bear."

Alec rolled his eyes at Jace's retreating back. "I'll remember that the next time you decide to drag me out of bed at sunrise and accompany you on one of your excursions! Admit it, Jace! You just want to claim the credit for finding those mangoes all by yourself!"

Jace grinned at the words, though he made no reply to Alec. His parabatai was correct in his assumptions, of course, as petty as it probably sounded. But as Clary's husband, he wanted to be the one who delivered her the fruit of her cravings.

As he came to a stop in front of one of the fruit stalls, his golden eyes scanned the myriad of colorful selection, hoping to high heavens that he would be blessed enough to find the object of his desire. To his surprise and utter excitement, he saw not one, but _four_ mangoes! Four! After the many failures he had encountered today, it was a true miracle.

"Give me those mangoes, please," Jace ordered the stall vendor whilst simultaneously pointing to the mangoes, a barely contained, half-crazed grin on his face.

The vendor gave him a strange look before recognition of his customer's identity finally settled in. "Right away, Your Majesty," the young boy replied before dutifully packing the mangoes into a brown paper bag.

Not bothering to ask him how much the mangoes cost, Jace eagerly shoved twenty silver shillings into the boy's hand, feeling tremendously generous due to his success of finally obtaining the obnoxiously elusive fruit.

 _Thank you, God._ He breathed a sigh of relief before turning around to leave the market, the bag of mangoes now clutched possessively against his chest.

Several passers-by gave him odd looks but Jace paid them no heed. Although a very childish part of him wanted nothing more than boast about his find—that he, Jace Herondale, had his hands on the last four juicy, ripe mangoes in possibly the entire kingdoms of Idris and Alicante combined—he was fairly certain that he had a lot more dignity and maturity than to do that.

 _See, my love?_ He sent the thought to his wife. _I can be gracious, too._

At that very moment, a large drop of rain fell from the sky and landed right on top of Jace's head. The young king halted in his tracks and turned his gaze to the sky, now darkened by clouds that he had been certain weren't there before. His golden eyes widened. The hour was approaching nightfall, and they were still a great distance away from home.

"No," he whispered, willing the rain not to come. "No, no, no. Please, don't rain!"

Lightning flashed, followed by a huge thunderclap, and within moments, the rain came down in torrents, instantly soaking Jace to the bone.

* * *

Silently, Jace crept into the chambers he shared with his wife, fervently praying that the young queen would be sound asleep since the hour was late. It had been a long and difficult ride back to the palace, what with the weather and—

"Jace Herondale, where on earth have you been?" Clary screeched, causing Jace to leap a foot in the air. It was an incredible feat considering how absolutely exhausted he was.

Slowly turning, he cringed at the sight of his fuming wife. She was dressed in a thin white nightgown, while her right hand was cradling the distended curve of her belly. In the dim lighting of their bedroom, her fiery red hair, which hung in loose waves over her shoulders, looked like actual flames ready to consume him.

Clearing his disused throat, he murmured, "I'm sorry, sweetheart—"

"Do you have any idea how long you've been gone? You didn't even leave so much as a vague note saying that you were out with Alec, and even then, you said that you'd be home by sundown! I have been worried sick about you!" Clary continued her rant.

"Clary," Jace's stern voice brought her tirade to a swift end.

In an instant, he saw the anger in her eyes vanish, only to be replaced with inexplicable worry as her eyes scanned his soaking wet appearance, the rainwater dripping from the tips of his hair to the ends of his feet. Jace shuddered as he suddenly realized how cold he was feeling.

"I'm sorry for making you worry, my love," he said as he reached out to cup her cheek.

Clary flinched at the coldness of his hand and Jace quickly retracted it to his side.

"Sorry," he said in response before fumbling into the satchel for the brown paper bag that held his wife's cravings, hopeful that it would make a good peace offering. "I went out with Alec to look for these," he explained, peeling a little at the damp paper bag to reveal the mangoes.

Clary's eyes widened at the sight of them and she pressed her hand against Jace's cheek albeit the numbing coldness she felt from the contact. "Oh Jace, you didn't have to," she murmured, a look of extreme contrite washing over her.

"I know," he returned, his voice equally soft, the way it usually sounded when it was just the two of them. "But I wanted to. I know you've told me before that you don't expect me to get you everything that you want, but I just...I couldn't help it. I just felt guilty for not getting _these_ ," he said, holding up the mangoes.

"And _I_ feel guilty for all the trouble you must have gone through to get them," Clary said with an apologetic look of her own. "Oh, sweetheart…"

Despite his earlier enthusiasm about claiming the credit for the rare find, Jace found himself shrugging modestly. "I know how much you've been craving for them," he simply said. "If you makes you feel better, I didn't just do it for you. It's for our child, too."

Clary smiled warmly at him as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cold cheek. "You're an amazing man, Jace Herondale. The very best. I'm sure our child will be inclined to agree too," she said before taking the bag of mangoes off his hands.

Jace gave her a lopsided grin in return.

"But," she looked up at him, a serious frown on her face. "That doesn't mean that I approve of you going off on these adventures without leaving me a proper note to apprise me on your whereabouts—or without taking several guards with you, for that matter. Jace, it's dangerous!"

Jace frowned right back at her, torn between guilt and feeling affronted by her scolding. "Clary, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself," he said, trying to sound firm but tactful at the same time. "Besides, I had Alec with me. He's capable, too."

"I'm not questioning your ability to take care of yourselves. _But_ suppose you're ambushed by a group of bandits who are skilled in combat and who carry weapons with them?" She asked him rhetorically. "That isn't a situation I ever want you to find yourself in. And as much as you prefer not to think of yourself as one, Jace, it doesn't alter the fact that you're _the_ _king_. The people who love you and support you aside, you can't dismiss that there are those who may harbor ill intentions against you. I would never wish you harm…but I am not going to sit here and feign ignorance over such a possibility." Finally, her tone softened. "You're so important to me, Jace—to this little _family_ of ours. No expedition, regardless of how pure and sweet your intentions are, are worth you risking your life or your safety. But if you have to go, then _please_ …promise me that you'll do whatever is necessary to ensure your safety?"

Jace nodded and bent down slightly to kiss his wife. Her lips felt warm, familiar, and he was overcome by gratitude to be home with her again. "I promise," he murmured softly, almost like a whisper, as he pulled away to look her in the eyes. He found hers searching his for proof of his sincerity, and when she finally found it, he was rewarded by the sweetest of smiles.

"Go, take a warm bath," Clary told him gently. "I'll go down to the kitchens to get some dinner for you. And then we can share these," she said, gesturing to the mangoes.

"Okay," Jace said, pressing a soft, chaste kiss on her cheek, then obediently entered the bathroom for a much needed bath.

* * *

Clary awoke hours later to the feeling of numbing coldness. Shivering, she listened to the rampant pitter-patter of the heavy downpour outside, and winced when a particularly loud thunderclap boomed, igniting a series of nervous heart palpitations in her chest.

"Jace," she whispered, patting her hand against the spot where her husband usually slept…only to find it cold and empty. Her heart rate increased as her mind revisited the events from earlier that evening, when she had been pacing and worrying about her husband. The idea of being alone, of _Jace_ leaving her alone after everything that had happened to her birth family…it was far more terrifying than an actual thunderstorm itself. Clary hadn't meant to grow so dependent on Jace, and perhaps, a part of her was ashamed for needing him as much as she did, but God, what was _love_ if you didn't fear losing the one you cared about?

Another thunderclap broke through Clary's haze of fear. Opening her eyes, she slowly sat up, one hand gently rubbing her stomach, where she could feel her baby performing a series of restless twists and somersaults. The gesture alleviated her emotional discomfort somewhat as she was reminded that she wasn't truly alone; she was carrying another life within her, one who despite not being born yet, was always there with her, giving her constant company even though it was _silent_ company. Smiling at her bump, Clary allowed herself a brief moment of gratitude before glancing across the dark space of her bedroom.

"Jace?" She called, her voice raspy with disuse. Lightning flashed again, accompanied by an even louder rumble of thunder, and Clary winced sharply as she clutched the blankets against her chest. "Jace!" She called again, louder this time.

When there was no response, she steeled herself before rolling out of bed and waddling quickly towards the adjoining bathroom. She pushed open the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and to her simultaneous relief and worry, she found her husband slumped against the toilet bowl, a filthy, shivering mess.

"Jace," Clary whispered worriedly, trying to walk as quickly as she could towards her husband.

Holding onto rim of the sink with one hand, while the other continued to cradle the bottom of her belly, she lowered herself onto her knees next to him.

"Oh, honey," she murmured, trying to steer Jace into a somewhat upright sitting position. He blinked his eyes open and blearily looked around, then rested his head against her shoulder with a miserable-sounding moan.

"Clary?" He rasped in a hoarse, scratchy voice, then groaned. "I feel horrible."

Clary wrapped an arm around his torso, and her nose scrunched up in disgust when she realized that there was a lingering putrid smell of vomit in the air—no doubt Jace's—and though his body was bathed in cold sweat, his skin was burning hot with fever.

"Clary," Jace muttered before abruptly recoiling from her. "You shouldn't be in here. I don't want you to get sick." On cue, he lurched forward, head poised over the toilet bowl and began to retch loudly.

Clary turned slightly green and she pinched her nose with her fingers to block out the rancid stench. But instead of leaving the bathroom, she stayed on her knees behind her husband, her free hand running up and down his back soothingly.

"Clary," Jace groaned upon finishing, his body still convulsing slightly from all the heaving. "Sweetheart, please, you need to leave," he tried to dismiss her.

"No," Clary answered firmly.

Slowly hauling herself up from the floor, she retrieved a jugful of water from the clay pot and poured it down the toilet bowl, hoping it would help to flush down the contents of his vomit. After, she left the bathroom, only to return with a glass of water for Jace. He was dozing fitfully against the wall, and awoke with a violent start when she roused him.

"Sorry," she apologized. "Here, my love. Drink." She held the mouth of the glass against his dried lips when his hands proved too shaky to be able to hold the glass himself.

"Thank you," Jace croaked when he had drained the glass whole, a slight color returning to his otherwise pallid face.

"You're welcome," Clary muttered, worry still etched onto her face. "So…you're sick," she said with an unintentionally deadpan expression.

Jace gave her a weak smirk. "No. I'm pretty sure that's just the morning sickness kicking in late," he joked as he rubbed his hand over her belly.

Clary chuckled. "Always the jester, aren't you?"

"Of course," Jace said. "Can't have my wife worrying too much over me, can I ?"

Clary sighed. "Of course I worry about you, Jace," she said, frowning again. "You shouldn't have spent the whole day out looking for mangoes for me. Did you even rest and stop to eat at all? And then the rain…" She muttered anxiously.

"Sorry," Jace said, hating that he was burdening his wife. "If it's any consolation, I did eat. Though it's very likely that my stomach didn't agree with the food…"

"Understatement. The next time you leave home, make sure to get the kitchen staff to prepare something for you at least. I'd feel more at ease knowing that the food you're eating is less likely to give you food poisoning," Clary lectured before heaving a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I know the last thing you need right now is for me to be reprimanding you—"

"I know you mean well, Clary," Jace responded in a weak voice. "It's okay."

Gently brushing his matted hair from his forehead, Clary planted a kiss on his heated skin. "I'm going to go draw you a warm bath. Just…hang in there," she told him.

Several minutes later, Clary was guiding her husband into the bathtub, which she had filled with just enough lukewarm water to hopefully bring his temperature down. The task of supporting his weight across the bathroom proved rather difficult, considering that Jace was a much larger person than Clary was, _added_ with the fact that she was pregnant, but they managed it nonetheless. Once Jace had settled himself into the bath, Clary lowered herself onto a stool and reached for a sponge to wash him, the act reminiscent of the times when Jace, being the exemplary, devoted husband that he was, would care for her by giving her baths. Although she wished that he wasn't sick, she was silently grateful for the opportunity to return the favor.

Meanwhile, Jace, despite priding himself on being the main carer in their relationship, found himself enjoying the care and attention that his wife was giving to him. Granted, it wasn't like Clary had never taken care of him before—she'd done so even before she'd known his name, when he had been whipped to near death—and had more than adequately demonstrated her love for him after they became husband and wife. But it was rare for Jace to find himself in a position where he felt physically weaker than Clary, where he felt the need to actually _depend_ on her.

Perhaps, if he were male chauvinist, such circumstances would probably feel slightly emasculating, but Jace felt no such sentiment. This was the other part of marriage that most probably took for granted, but in reality, was the cornerstone of a strong and healthy relationship: companionship. Yes, Jace loved Clary in a romantic way, but if ever the passion in their relationship were to flicker and fade, he would always and most assuredly love her as his chosen life partner, the one person he would never be afraid to let his guard down to and see him at his most vulnerable.

"Mmm, I love you, Clary," Jace murmured as he gazed at his wife's focused expression through exhausted, squinted eyes.

Clary paused momentarily to return his gaze, then smiled at him sweetly. "I love you too, Jace."

When they emerged from the bathroom nearly half an hour later, Clary left Jace sitting on his side of the bed, clothed in a pair of black sleep trousers. After giving him explicit instructions to not move a muscle, she left their chambers, only to return with a hot cup of ginger tea this time. Having had her share of fevers and upset stomachs, she was fairly confident that ginger tea was an effective remedy for such ailments, and hoped that it would work for Jace as well.

However, before she could order him to drink the tea, she was halted by the sight of her husband reclining on the floor with a pillow and a measly blanket to form a mattress of sorts. As if sensing her approach, he blinked open an eye and grinned up at her. Unmoved, Clary stared at him as a single thought filtered through her mind: _That is certainly not where I left him._

"Jace," she growled as she set down the cup of ginger tea on the bedside table. "What are you doing on the _floor_?" She asked him in a pointed tone.

To her rising irritation, her insouciant husband had the gall to respond in a deadpan voice: "I'm sick."

"Really? I would never have guessed," Clary replied, the sarcasm thick in her tone. "Up. Bed. _Now,_ " she ordered, in all manner befitting an army commander.

Of course, Jace was the primary example of a petulant underling as he turned over and buried his face into his pillow. " _No_ ," he mumbled.

Clary's temper quickly escalated. "Jace Herondale! Get your derriere off the floor and into the bed, now!"

" _I don't want to._ "

"JACE!"

Finally, her husband turned over to match her glare with his own. "Clary, I'm sick," he snapped. "There is no way I am sleeping on the bed and risking getting you and the baby infected."

"For Heaven's sake! Will you stop being so dramatic?" Clary gritted out. "There is no way I'm letting you sleep on the floor in your condition. If you're so determined on not sharing the bed with me, then fine, _I'll_ take the floor; _you_ take the bed."

Immediately, Jace sat up. "What condition?" He asked her angrily. "I'm sick, you're pregnant. If anything, _you_ shouldn't be sleeping on the floor in _your_ condition."

"The floor's probably dusty. I don't want you to get any worse than you already are."

"Well, sweetheart," Jace crooned sardonically. "If the floor's dusty, we might need to have a serious talk with the maids since they're obviously not doing their jobs very well."

"Fine! Sleep on the floor for all I care!" Clary shrieked as frustrated tears began leaking past her emerald green eyes. Stomping angrily on Jace's blanket, she whacked him once on the head with a pillow before resigning herself to the side of the bed furthest away from him. "Good night! I hope the bed bugs bite you all over and drain you of your blood!"

Holding one of the pillows against his chest, Jace stared at his wife's fuming form. For weeks after they discovered her pregnancy, he had been cautioned of the possible encounter of mood swings from his female counterpart. He had only started to believe the warnings to be false—Clary was hardly _ever_ irrationally angry with him—up until several seconds ago.

Jace let out a silent sigh as he debated his options. He was averse to the idea of sharing the bed with Clary because, _who knew_ , his wife could get sick, too. But then again…maybe not. Besides, between a sick Clary and an angry Clary…perhaps the former was the lesser of two evils. No sane husband would ever wish for a hormonal and angry wife.

Hesitantly, Jace dragged himself up to his side of their bed, then cautiously moved his arm to wrap it around Clary. Before he could succeed in the task, however, she roughly slapped his arm away, apparently still angry at him.

"Why are you on _my_ bed?" She seethed. "I thought you wanted to sleep on the floor."

Jace opened his mouth to speak when she cut him off, again _._

"Drink your tea before it gets cold," she commanded, pointing to the bedside table without turning around to face him.

Sighing in defeat, Jace did as he was told—

Or at least, he _tried_ to.

The moment the tea entered his mouth, he started to splutter and cough wildly, shooting tea all over the bedsheets. Immediately, Clary sat up and faced him, once again transforming back into the role of the worried wife. She patted his back, anxiously asking him what was wrong.

After a fitful round of coughing, Jace took in a deep breath and placed the tea on the bedside table, his golden eyes watery. "I hate ginger tea," he muttered hoarsely before slumping tiredly against his pillow.

Clary's mouth fell agape at her husband's confession, having initially thought that there was a more serious issue than him simply hating the tea.

As Jace's eyes were about to flutter shut, he saw a flash of white, and before he could register what was happening, he felt the sharp smack of a pillow against his face.

* * *

 ** _Long A/N ahead , only because there were lots going on in this outtake and I feel compelled to share my thoughts while writing it._**

 ** _Old readers, I definitely churned out a lot more content for the scene with Alec and Jace in the beginning because I wanted to show the aspect of brotherly bonding and comradeship that we didn't quite get to see in the earlier chapters. I definitely gave Alec a lot more dialogue than he originally had, and from that, I hope we got a better glimpse into his character in this story. Like Jace, Clary and other characters in this story, Alec too has traits and attributes that would make him slightly OOC, but that's a given since this is an AU story. It's not out of a lack of respect for the original portrayal of the characters by Cassandra Clare, but simply me wanting to take a few creative liberties and put my own spin on the characters for this story. That said, let's delve into the key points and messages weaved into this outtake, shall we?_**

 ** _Firstly, the biggest change I made to Alec's character is that his main conflict doesn't have anything to do with his sexuality, but rather, his struggles in the aftermath of his own personal tragedy. I won't get into the gory details of what exactly my mind conceived to have happened to Alec, but the event is extremely vital in the way it has affected Alec, not just physically, but also mentally and emotionally. Now, what was the point of that? Do I purposely enjoy writing dark and tragic backstories for our characters? To an extent, yes. But more importantly, it's because I feel that there are lessons that we can take away from these characters when we learn about how they've built themselves back up after they have hit rock bottom. Case in point, when we were first introduced to Alec in this story, we saw a young, brusque and strong gladiator hardened by the difficult events in his life. Like Jace, he had lost both his parents and was forced into becoming a gladiator. At the same time, he was also separated from his younger siblings and had believed his best friend to be dead. What we didn't know until this outtake, however, was that much more sinister things had happened to Alec prior to his reunion with Jace._**

 ** _With this new information in hand, I believe that we can appreciate and respect Alec's character even more. He could have easily given up on his life after he had been abused and humiliated in the way no man ever should ever have to experience in his lifetime, but because of his determination and faith, Alec held on and fought for his redemption. We also have Magnus to credit for being Alec's rock in his time of need, but we'll get to that part later. Moreover, learning Alec's backstory also also helps to set a few things into perspective, such as Alec's protectiveness over Jace and his initial aversion towards Jace's feelings for Clary. Alec was firmly against Clace in the beginning because he only feared what happened to him would also happen to Jace—and no good person would ever wish harm upon another, especially a friend whom he cares greatly about._**

 ** _Secondly, why did it take so long for Alec to open up to Jace about his past? And why did he feel it important to share that piece with him in the first place? Well, when Alec and Jace were first reunited, a lot of years had passed between them. It didn't make sense for them to immediately pick up where they left off because when they were separated from each other, they were but mere boys, and now, they have grown up. Who was to say that Jace was the same person Alec remembered and vice versa? Also, there was great fear and concern on Alec's part on how Jace would react to Alec's dark secret. It took him so long to build himself back up, but if there was ever a chance that Jace saw him differently, or disparaged him, Alec's self-worth and belief in himself would be shaken. Alec needed the time to think things over and to work up the courage to share his secret with Jace, a decision he made because, (a) he felt he owed it to his oldest friend to be honest with him and to set certain things straight, and (b) because he wanted to solidify their trust in one another as brothers/parabatai and prove to himself that there is more to their friendship than just a tied past and synergy on the battlefield._**

 ** _Fortunately, Jace reciprocated and took the news graciously, which is something I feel deserves to be highlighted because while the two of them may have their respective weaknesses and differences, they certainly have not compromised their ability to respect one another's individuality and dignity as equal beings. To me, that's an important principle to have in any time and place in this world. Also, Jace's confession about his fears of childbirth and Alec reassuring him? I like that Alec whom we previously saw as the doubtful, skeptical friend is now imparting bits of wisdom to allay Jace's fears and obsessive anxiety about the future. We all need that one friend at least to remind us of the importance of positive thinking, don't we?_**

 ** _Thirdly, let's talk about the dynamics of the relationship between Alec and Magnus. While they're not a romantic couple in this story, I want to stress upon the fact that it doesn't make their relationship any less valuable. For those of us out there who have been blessed with a platonic soulmate in our lives, I think you can agree with me on this. There are many facets to love, not just the romantic kind. I wanted to explore the idea of love between two individuals as companions who have such a deep trust, respect and compassion for one another, but at the same time, don't feel the need to take their relationship to the 'next' level; that it is simply enough for them to be grateful for each other's presence and believe that it is not a weakness when you choose not to pursue something 'more'. Because really, there's more to life than just seeking a fairytale romance or fulfilling one's baser desires. To live meaningfully is also to thrive resiliently in spite of the trials set in your path, and to cherish the people who have either raised you, shaped you or supported you along the way. That's the example that Alec and Magnus are depicting in this story, and while it's somewhat of a change from how we know them in canon, I hope that you guys liked it. I mean no offense to anyone by choosing to write their relationship differently. If I did, I apologize. Please know that I respect each and every one of you readers, regardless of who you are, where you live, or what you believe in._**

 ** _And FINALLY, moving on to my Clace babies... How's that for some fluff to balance out the heaviness in the earlier scenes? I absolutely love writing about Clary and Jace in scenarios where they take care of each other, because gosh, the feels! What better way to show love than to spend hours looking for mangoes (in Jace's case) and Clary affectionately nagging and nursing her sick husband back to health? To me, it's a nice switch because we often see Jace playing the role of a protector towards Clary. It goes to show how caring/protective our Clary can be as well, especially now that her maternal instincts have kicked in (though please excuse the hormonal outburst towards the end, because I couldn't resist a touch of humor to end things on a light note!)_**

 ** _To wrap up this A/N, I know this is just an outtake so most wouldn't be bothered to review anymore, but if you could spare me a minute of your time to leave me a few kind words of support or a nicely-worded piece of constructive criticism, I would welcome it so much :)_**

 ** _Until next time, my lovelies..._**

 ** _Peace and love!_**


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